


Every Single Thing

by thestoryinsideme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Canon compliant through mid-season 10, Castiel Whump, Castiel in the Bunker, Castiel's Loss of Grace, Castiel/Dean Winchester in the Bunker, Crowley is bad, De-Aged Castiel, Destiel - Freeform, Fading Grace, First Time, Fluff, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Spells & Enchantments, Team Free Will, canon consistent secrets and deception, dean/cas - Freeform, supernatural universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-03-22 13:43:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 37,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3731077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestoryinsideme/pseuds/thestoryinsideme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As Castiel’s acquired grace continues to fade, he is struck with a de-aging spell that has an unusual and unexpected effect on the angel. While working to find a cure, Dean and Sam both discover that there is a great deal more behind the spell than either one had imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after 10.14 "The Executioner's Song," where it then goes divergent.

It happens so gradually at first that Dean doesn’t even notice.

He doesn’t see the subtle change in Cas’s inflection and mannerisms. He’s not concerned when Cas joins them for meals. And he’s outright delighted when Cas suggests they go to happy hour at the local bar.

Dean and Sam both watch in amused awe as Cas downs his ninth shot of whiskey then slams the empty shot glass down on the wood bar top.

“Anything?” Dean asks.

Cas grins, shrugs with both shoulders, then stands and removes his suit jacket. He folds it in half, lays it neatly over the back of his stool. “Excuse me, gentlemen,” he says. “Nature calls.”

Dean nods, tips his beer bottle toward Cas and watches him walk away.

"I’m not so sure we can afford to get him drunk,” he jokes when Cas is out of sight, but Sam isn’t laughing. “It sure as hell was a lot cheaper when one beer did him in.”

“Dean. Cas just went to the restroom.”

"Yeah, I know.”

“He went to the bathroom. The toilet.”

“I know what a restroom is, Sam.”

Sam sighs, mildly exasperated. “Nature shouldn’t be calling him. Why would nature be calling him?”

Oh. Right.

Dean’s had a lot of personal thoughts about Cas, but the angel’s bathroom habits have never been something that mattered enough to pay attention to. But apparently Sam is keeping track.

“Well he has been eating and drinking lately," Dean says.  "Maybe angels don’t go to the bathroom because they don’t eat, but when they do eat, then, you know, nature calls.”

Sam considers that for a moment, brows drawn together with concern.  “Maybe.  Or maybe it’s because of his fading grace.  He’s eating, sleeping sometimes, and now… this.”

And that’s another thing Dean hasn’t been thinking about; Cas’s grace.  Not because it doesn't matter, but because it does.  Dean guzzles the remainder of the beer, tries to stop thinking about it, but now that it’s been brought up, it’s impossible to push back.

“Well, at least he’s stopped wearing that fugly trench coat,” Dean says, finally, after several long minutes.  Cas lost interest in his new trench coat sometime last week when he wadded it up into a ball to use as a pillow while they travelled to Missouri for a rugaru hunt, then left it in the back of the Impala.  It was still there, as far as Dean knew.  “I liked the other one better.”

“Yeah.  I remember,” Sam snorts.

Dean shoots him a dirty look while he tries to come up with an appropriate comeback, but he’s distracted by the ruckus coming from around the pool table behind them.

They both turn around at the same time to see what’s causing the commotion, but there are too many people to see anything. Dean listens to the clicks of ball striking ball, the thuds of weight dropping into pockets, each time followed by applause.

"Must be some interesting game going on back there,” Sam says, and Dean agrees.  Sam glances around the bar.  “Cas sure is taking a long time.  Maybe I should go check on him.”

He doesn’t have to, because as soon as Sam says it, the crowd around the table parts, leaving them with a clear view of what is happening only a few feet behind them.  Dean nearly loses his beer through his nose when he sees Cas at the center of it, standing by the table, pool stick in one hand, the other one rubbing at his chin while he glowers at the balls left on the felt surface.   His sleeves are rolled up and his shirt is partially unbuttoned, the knot of his tie pulled loose and low so that the skin below his neck is clearly visible.  The small group of people surrounding him, none of whom Dean has ever seen before, urge him on.

“I’m going to give you a mulligan on that one.”  A young man wearing a long sleeved shirt and tightly buttoned  knit vest pulls the white ball from the far corner pocket, offers it to Cas.  The spectators hum in approval.

“I appreciate that,” Cas says.  “I don’t know where I went wrong, geometrically speaking.” Cas runs his fingertips along the felt.  “And I’m fairly sure I didn’t miscalculate the friction coefficient.”

Something about the way Cas is talking and moving and smiling disturbs Dean.  “What the hell?” he says to Sam, slides off of his barstool and stands beside it. “He’s flirting!  Cas is flirting.”

The man blinks at Cas, tucks his shoulder length hair behind his ears.  “You’re really smart, aren’t you?  You a professor or something?”

Cas hesitates briefly before responding. “Yes. I’m a professor. Or something.”

“Well, Teach, why don’t you just lay that ball-in-hand anywhere you please.”

Cas nods, then places the ball on the table and steps back. He positions his pool cue and leans into it, draws back and strikes, sinking the eight ball to a round of applause.

“Professor, you’ve got some mad skills.” The man shoves a handful of dollar bills into Cas’s hand. “I do believe that I could learn a thing or two from you.”

“Thank you.  But I cannot accept your money since technically, per unspoken but traditionally accepted rules of the game, I lost.”

“Fair enough.”  When he takes the money back from Cas’s closed hand, he lets his own hand linger there for a moment.  “Would you accept something else instead?  Say a couple of drinks?  Maybe a steak dinner down at Pete’s Grill?”

Cas doesn’t get the opportunity to answer because Dean is there in an instant, answering for him. “Not a chance, sweater vest!” Dean steps between the two men, faces Cas.  “Come on, buddy.  I think it’s time to get out of here.”

With one hand on each of Cas’s shoulders, Dean guides Cas back over to the bar, then signals with his head for Sam to leave with them. Sam grabs Cas’s jacket and follows them out the door and into the Impala.

______________________________

 

“Did I do something wrong, Dean?” Cas asks him in the car on the way home, but Dean just grunts and shakes his head.

"No, Cas.” Sam answers for Dean, glancing at him sideways, then twisting around to look at Cas in the back seat. “You’re allowed to have fun.”

Cas says nothing, and the rest of the ride home is silent.

______________________________

 

Dean is tucked under a blanket and on the brink of consciousness when he hears the knock on his door.

“Yeah, come on in,” he grumbles, pulls himself up onto one side in the bed as Cas enters the room and closes the door behind him.

Dean glances at the time on his phone with one eye still closed. “Cas, what’s going on?  It’s after one, man.”

“Something’s wrong.”

Dean scoots up and leans back against the headboard. He rubs his eyes with his fists. “Nah, Cas. Sam was right. I was just being a jerk. We’re good.”

“Oh.” Cas blinks several times, enough for Dean to figure out that his own behavior at the bar was not what Cas was referring to.

Dean pats the empty side of the bed. “Take a seat. Talk to me.”

Cas sits on the edge of the bed, facing Dean. “It started three weeks ago.”

Dean bites his bottom lip, runs his hand through his hair before he asks the question he’s afraid to hear the answer to. “Is it the grace? Are you…?”

“No.  I’m fine.”  Cas says it firmly, and Dean’s relief is palpable. “It’s not related to my grace. It’s… something else.”

“So exactly what started three weeks ago?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Wait.  Do you mean ‘three weeks ago,’ as in when you jumped in between me and that evil skank and you were hit with some of the witchy crap?”

Cas nods.

“You said you were impotent, that it couldn’t do anything to you.”

Cas sighs, loud and heavy.  “I said that I was immune to such banal magic. I explained to you that since I don’t age in the human sense, a spell calculated to reduce said age would prove to be impotent.”

“Right. That’s what I meant. And you were right, right?”

“Yes.  At least I think so. I’ve been wondering, though, with the grace I’m using not being my own and not functioning fully, if perhaps I was in some ways vulnerable.”

Dean doesn’t like the sound of that. The words “Cas” and “vulnerable” should never be used in the same sentence.

“But we’d know by now.  Those spells usually work immediately, or within a few hours at the most. It’s been weeks, and you're still the same age. You’re still a grown man. If that spell had gotten either one of us, we’d be kids right now.”

“Presumably.” Cas moves up on the bed, closer to Dean. “Yet, I feel different.”

“Yeah? Different how?” Dean eyes Cas from head to toe. At least he looks the same. Same sharp, chiseled jaw. Same telling, blue eyes. Same full, downturned lips.  Other than clothing, including the current new suit and epic fail replacement trench coat, Cas’s appearance hasn’t changed in the last seven years, and Dean is grateful. There was a time when Dean used to wish Cas had chosen a female when he was vessel shopping all those years ago.  Now he hopes that this one lasts forever.  

“Tonight. At the bar. I wanted to…enjoy myself. I wanted to… play pool.”

Dean chuckles at the way Cas says the words; as if playing pool was taboo. “Well, that’s pretty normal, Cas.”

“Not for me. My experience in that area is so limited, and although curious, I’ve never had a true desire to…uhm… play pool, let alone with a stranger. Yet, when that man asked, I was unexpectedly overcome with a need to… play pool.”

Cas is not very good at saying things by not saying things, so Dean isn’t entirely sure what he is telling him, although it's obvious he's trying to say something else. “Like Sam said, nothing wrong with wanting to have some fun, Cas. You’re allowed. And if it turns out that you like pool that much, we should get a table for the bunker.”

Cas looks up at the ceiling, gathering his thoughts before he speaks again. “I understand that you enjoy the game of pool as well, Dean, and that you often play with strangers. That it’s something you excel at.”

“So I’m told.”

Cas picks at the blanket covering Dean’s lower half. “I have certain skills as well, because of my understanding of science and my general knowledge base, but I’m not at all experienced, as you are.”

Dean hesitates. “Well, like anything else, it just takes time. And practice.”

“I see. Well, I fully intend to give it another try. Possibly, many more tries.”

Wait. Maybe Dean is reading this the wrong way. “Huh.”

“And I would like to do it with you. If you’re interested.”

Dean swallows, ignores the tickle spreading low in his belly. He recognizes that Cas’s deep, husky voice makes nearly everything he says sound like a come on, but this time he’s willing to place bets that his friend isn’t talking about billiards anymore.

“No strings attached, as they say,” Cas continues. “No commitment. No obligation. No one else need even know. We play as long as we want to. As long as we both enjoy… pool.”

Dean acts dumb, testing him. “Yeah, okay. We can even get you your own cue stick if you—“

“I’m talking about sex, Dean.” Cas shifts on the bed uncomfortably, looks away from Dean. “I apologize for being unclear. I was attempting to use innuendo, as you and your brother are fond of, but I see I’ve failed.”

“Nope, no, you didn’t fail.” Under the blanket, Dean rubs at his groin with his palm, tries to push it down. He hasn’t had a chance to think this through like he knows he should, but apparently, his dick is one hundred percent on board.  Make that one hundred ten percent.

“I’m in.” Cas raises his brows at Dean’s prompt response. “When would you like to—“

"Now,” Cas says. “I’d like to start now, if you’re ready.”

Ready? Hardly. At least not as far as his head is concerned.  But since when did Dean Winchester ever wait until he was ready? He’s not there yet emotionally, he knows that much, and he has no reason to believe that he ever will be.  It seems he’s just not made that way. His body is signaling all systems go, though, and what Cas is offering, well it just might be perfect. Besides, there’s no way in hell he’s going to let Cas play pool with random, sweater-wearing sons of bitches he meets in bars.  

“As I’ll ever be,” Dean says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://thestoryinsideme.tumblr.com//) here!


	2. Chapter 2

Since the day Cas introduced himself to Dean beneath a canopy of exploding light bulbs and electrical fixtures, Cas has never half-assed anything. When he decides on a course of action, he’s all in, regardless of the consequences. Dean has no doubt that Cas will put the same intensity into learning the game of pool, and he’s looking forward to it.

Cas is observant; he notices everything, pays attention to details. He barely even blinks until Dean wraps one slick hand firmly around him and pulls, cups him and presses gently with the other.

Under Dean’s hands, Cas groans softly through his parted lips while the skin on his neck and chest reddens. When he comes, his eyelids flutter, then squeeze shut as his face contorts, screws up. Dean holds onto him through it, watches him. He’s mesmerized. He’s never seen anything like this, never felt anything like this before. It’s unsettling.

“Dean?” Cas opens his eyes slowly, speaks first.

“Yeah, Cas?” Dean whispers, not ready to end this moment, not just yet. It’s not that he’s sentimental, but it’s the first time he and Cas have been together like this, and it’s nothing like he thought it would be.

“I think you can let go now.”

“Huh?” Dean looks down at his hand, still wrapped around Cas’s softened length. He releases it abruptly, flustered.

“You’ve never done this either,” Cas says.

“It… it wasn’t… good? I tried to do the things that I like to--”

“It was more than good, Dean,” Cas assures. “What I mean is that you’ve not done this with another man.”

Dean shakes his head. “That obvious, huh? Did you think that I had?” Dean reaches behind him for the shirt he had left on the floor by the bed. He wipes his hand clean with it, then Cas’s belly.

Cas’s eyes follow Dean’s hands. “I assumed so, yes,” Cas replies. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have been so bold as to ask you to teach me.”

He considers questioning Cas about why he would think that, but he doesn’t. Deep down, he knows the answer. “I’ve seen it, though. Many times. In videos. On the internet.” Dean doesn’t want Cas to change his mind, to go elsewhere for this education. “I think I know enough to show you things, Cas. I mean, I definitely know what makes a dick happy. That’s important, right?”

“If by happy you mean erect, then yes, that’s important.” Cas says it so matter-of-factly that Dean has to hold back a chuckle. “I suppose that between your experience with pornography and sexual partners, and my knowledge of the human reproductive system, we can learn from each other.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees. “It’s all just physical stuff, right? Nerve endings and shit?”  For the first time, Dean feels regret that he skipped so many biology classes in high school.

“Something like that,” Cas says. “As far as carnal etiquette is concerned, what happens now, Dean?”

Dean grins, and it’s impossible to conceal his enthusiasm. “Something known as ‘returning the favor.’”

______________________________

 

When he wakes, Cas is gone. Dean shouldn’t have fallen asleep, that’s not how these sex-without-strings things work, but he did. Now he’s bothered because Cas couldn’t be bothered to stick around so he could explain that to him. It's important that Cas doesn't get the wrong idea. He rolls over onto the middle of the mattress and stays there a few minutes longer before getting up to look for Cas.

Cas is in the kitchen, standing by the coffee machine and chatting away with Sam like it’s just another day. As if he hadn’t been naked in Dean’s bed last night. As if the hands now holding a pot full of freshly brewed coffee hadn’t hours earlier stroked Dean to completion with the precision of a Swiss watch.

“Good morning, Dean.” Cas smiles, pours some coffee into a mug and hands it to him. “Did you sleep well?”

He did. And if Cas had been there when he woke up, he would already know that. But he wasn’t, so despite Dean’s unusually uplifted mood, he grunts at Cas, shrugs at the same time. He takes the coffee to the table and sits next to Sam.

“I’d take that as a no,” Sam says to Cas, then turns to Dean. “Dean, is everything okay?”

Sam’s worried. He’s always worried. Perpetually worried about the Mark on Dean’s arm. “I’m fine, Sam,” he says for the umpteenth time. “Really. I slept okay. Better than usual.” Dean sips his coffee and glances up at Cas.

Cas nods once, then pulls out the stool on the other side of the table, ready to take a seat across from the two brothers.

“What about you?” Sam makes no real effort to hide his scrutiny of Cas while sipping his coffee. “Your hair is kind of a mess. And your clothes.... If I didn’t know that angels don't sleep, I’d guess that you slept in them.”

Dean snickers. Sam couldn’t be more wrong. Cas’s clothes are wrinkled because for once he _didn’t_ sleep in them. Instead he had left them in a crumpled heap on Dean’s bedroom floor after taking them off.

“Oh.” Cas looks down at himself, then smoothes his shirt with his hand and the wrinkles disappear. “Is that better?”

“Did you sleep last night, Cas?” Sam asks. “Do you need to sleep every night now?”

Cas dips his head as he sits down. “Yes, but I only need a couple hours or so. And I did sleep last night. Quite well in fact.”

Dean clears his throat. Cas agreed that he would be discreet, but Dean isn’t convinced that Cas understands what discretion is. “How could you possibly sleep well on that crappy old army cot?” Dean says, then adds “I mean the one in your room. Where you would have to have slept, of course, if you slept last night like you say. I wouldn’t know, personally. Have to take your word for it.”

Overkill, he realizes too late, but one look at his brother, whose concerned eyes are still locked on Cas, assures him that Sam is too preoccupied to notice it.

“Of course, “ Cas says. “It was adequate, Dean.”

“Just adequate? That’s not good enough, Cas. I think we can do better.”

Cas drops his head while Sam looks at Dean, brows raised. “Well you’ve got the best mattress in the bunker, Dean,” Sam says. “Maybe you can let Cas borrow it for his two hours when you’re not using it.”

Dean makes a face. “What?”

Sam shakes his head. “Or you could use my bed, Cas. Whenever you want. Or, if this is going to be a, uhm, permanent thing, we can get you your own bed. A real bed.”

“It’s not permanent.” Dean quickly insists.

“Okay, Dean. You’re right.” Sam stands, pats Dean on the back. “We’ll find a solution. In fact, I’m going to check some stuff out now.”

Both men nod at Sam as he leaves, and Dean waits until they can no longer hear his footsteps before he speaks.

“So. What happened to _you_ this morning?” Dean shovels cereal into his mouth as he speaks and pretends to read the back of the Frosted Flakes box as if it is the most interesting thing in the room. It’s not, but anything’s easier than looking at Cas.

Cas looks down at himself, baffled. “Nothing that I’m aware of, Dean.”

“I mean why--” Dean starts, then stops himself. This is it. Right here. This is where the line has to be drawn. It’s too late to reconsider the rash, impulsive decision he made last night, but they need to establish some parameters, agree on the terms of this arrangement. He’s already made a rookie mistake, and he’s the farthest thing from a rookie where casual sex is concerned. “Never mind.”

Cas gets up and goes for the coffee, brings the carafe back to the table. “Sam is right,” he says as tops off Dean’s cup. “Your mattress is… unusually comfortable.”

“So you like my mattress?”

Cas nods emphatically. “Very much. It’s as if it was made for my human form. It’s soft yet firm at the same time.”

“That’s because it’s memory foam,” Dean boasts. “It remembers me.”

“Ah.” Cas says it as if he actually knows what memory foam is.

Dean claps his hands together, leans into his elbows on the table. “I was wondering, though, if we’re going to do this thing, if we're going to be _playing pool,_ maybe there needs to be some rules.”

“Are you referring to rules other than those already well-established for playing pool?”

“Yes I am. I guess you might call them house rules. Special rules, to make sure we’re both on the same page and neither one of us… so we both agree that this is nothing more than two friends... teaching each other how to play pool.”

“An educational endeavor,” Cas confirms.

“Exactly.”

“I see.” Cas taps his finger against his lips. “What do you have in mind?”

“Okay,” Dean nods, wipes his sweaty hands on his shirt. “For starters, this is just between us. You and me. Sam knows nothing.”

Cas nods once. “I understand, Dean.”

“B: no sleepovers. When we’re done, we both go about our own business.”

“All right.”

“Third: no talking about feelings. In fact, the less talking, the better. And for god’s sake, no pet names. Under any circumstances, ever.”

“Of course,” Cas agrees.

“And no kissing or cuddling, or, or, you know, any of that kind of chick stuff.”

“Naturally.” Cas sips from his coffee, licks his lips. “Anything else you’d like to discuss?”

Is there? It feels like there is, like there should be, but Dean can’t quite figure out exactly what that might be. “No. That’s it.”

“Then if that’s settled, do you mind if I borrow your bed for an hour or so?” Cas asks. “You were right about the one in my room.”

“Now? I guess so. Sure.” He nods, relieved that Cas is still on board despite Dean’s demands. Cas really does seem to get him.

Cas gets up, coffee in hand as he makes his way out of the kitchen. He stops at the doorway and turns around. “You coming?”

Dean bangs his knee on the underside of the table and spills what’s left of his coffee when he tries to jump up too quickly and is trapped by the pivoting stool. “Goddammit!” he bellows. “I’ll be right there. As soon as I clean up this mess.”

______________________________

 

He doesn’t wait until he gets to his room to start peeling off layers.

With two shirts in one hand and his belt in the other, he opens the door to his room and enters slowly. It’s dark. There are no windows in his room, the only thing about it that he would change, if he could. A single, dim beam of light comes from the lamp on his desk, but it’s enough that he can see Cas in his bed, lying on his back, beneath the covers.

Dean tosses his shirts and belt in the general direction of the chair, then climbs onto the bed and lies on his back next to Cas. “Sorry it took me so long, buddy.”

There’s no response from the man beside him, and Dean throws up his arms, but keeps the expletives to himself so as not to wake him.

“Whatever,” he mumbles. He’ll have to get up now; the rules require it. No sleepovers. Technically, though, if he stays where he is, it wouldn’t be an actual sleepover. But still, it would violate the intention of the rule, the purpose of having any rules at all.

“I’m not asleep.” Cas turns his head toward Dean and whispers into his shoulder.

Dean sighs. “Oh, thank fuck.”

______________________________

 

Four days in, Dean thinks that this arrangement with Cas might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. Of course, how could he feel otherwise with Cas kneeling on the floor in front of the bed, leaning into him, head bowed, his more than willing mouth mere inches away from mission control.

“So now I just, lick it? With my tongue?” he asks.

“It’s a good place to start,” Dean says. He’s propped up on his elbows so he can watch while Cas gives it a try.

“Like that?”

“Yeah, that’s good, but maybe use a little more pressure.”

“Pressure?”

“Maybe that’s not the right word,” Dean says. “You know how when you’re eating a popsicle, and you lick up the sides of it kind of aggressively so it doesn’t drip all over your hand?  And then once you have that under control, you put the whole thing in your mouth, and you slide it in and out, swirling your tongue around it while you… well, you know. Like that.”

“I don’t know.” Cas sits back on his folded legs and looks up at Dean. “I’ve never had a popsicle before.”

“You haven’t? Not even when you were human?” Dean frowns. “Come on, at the Gas-n-Sip?”

Cas sighs. “No, Dean. I sold them, but never ate them.  So you’re telling me that I’m to pretend that your penis is one of those popsicles?”

“Uhm, yeah. Basically.”

“What flavor?”

“Huh?”

“What flavor popsicle? They come in flavors, if I remember correctly.”

“Pick one,” Dean says, a little too impatiently. “Whatever flavor you like, Cas.”

Cas’s mouth twists as he thinks about it. “Peanut butter,” he decides.

“Popsicles don’t come in--” Dean stops, pulls himself upright. “You know what? I’m gonna go first.” He should have taken the lead to begin with, but Cas wanted to, and although he had suspected, he wasn’t certain until this moment that Cas has never been on either end of the best idea mankind has ever had.

“Come here, buddy.” Dean helps Cas onto the bed. He pulls him up, pushes him toward the headboard, then slides down onto his belly between Cas’s legs, wastes no time. He’s never done this before either, but it’s not difficult. It’s more pleasurable for him than he thought it would be, in large part, he believes, due to Cas’s response; the way he gasps and twists his hips and pants out Dean’s name over and over and over.

When Cas finishes and Dean backs off of him, Cas slumps over onto his side, eyes closed. Dean crawls up next to him, lies on his side facing him, watches while Cas’s breaths even out. He’s afraid he will never tire of this, and he’s perfectly content to lie there and wait, give Cas all the time he needs to recover, so they can do it again.

Until Cas presses his head into Dean’s neck and kisses it.

Shit.  Dean stiffens, torn for an instant before he rolls away from Cas and sits up on the edge of the bed, begins to get dressed. Cas shouldn’t have done it, but more importantly, Dean shouldn’t have wanted him to.

“I have to go change the oil in the Impala,” Dean says as he ties his shoes, his back to Cas. “You can stay and sleep for a while, if you’re tired.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says flatly, and Dean leaves the room, closing the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean needs to be busy. He needs to keep his mind off of the curse on his arm, and off of other things. But it’s been quiet out there since the rugaru, according to Sam, and other than research, it’s been a couple weeks since their last hunt.

Unlike Dean, though, Cas is always busy. He’s in and out of the bunker, going places, doing things that do not involve hunting or heaven, and do not include the Winchesters. As far as pool is concerned, Cas has either lost interest in the game or he’s playing it elsewhere, the latter of which sits in the back of Dean’s mind and refuses to go the fuck away.

It's no surprise. He isn’t particularly self-aware, but he knows a stupid son of a bitch when he sees one in the mirror. Screwing up with Cas was bound to happen - some things are just too good to be true - but he’d hoped that it would be later rather than sooner.

Dean has set himself up at the map table, conveniently located by the bunker exit and entrance. That's where he is when Cas passes him on his way out, offers a casual wave of the hand.

Dean stands. “Wait, hold up. You going somewhere?”

Cas nods. “I am.”

“In that getup?” Dean gestures at Cas’s attire. He dumped his trenchcoat weeks ago, and now the suit has fallen as well. He’s wearing blue jeans and a black crewneck sweater tonight. It’s basic, simple; there’s nothing wrong with it, really, except, maybe, the fit of it. The sweater clings loosely to Cas’s pretty damn firm torso, while the jeans wrap around his hips and thighs like a compression bandage.

Cas looks down at himself. “Yes.”

“Are those new boots?”

Cas dismisses Dean with a head shake and continues toward the bunker stairs.

“Cas, seriously, where are you going?” Dean asks the angel's back.

Cas stops and turns around. “I’m going out for a little while. There’s no reason why I can’t do that, is there Dean? I’m a grown man.”

“Angel,” Dean corrects. “You’re a grown angel.”

Cas frowns, disapproving, and shakes his head at Dean once more.

Dean swallows the rest of the snarky comment on the tip of his tongue. “Are you, uh, going to be playing pool? Can you at least tell me that?”

Cas sighs, seems to soften. “No, Dean. I’m going to watch a football game.”

“A game?” Dean perks up with relief. “I’ll go with you. I love football.”

“Not American football. Soccer. You don’t like soccer, so I’m going alone.” Cas bounds up the stairs as if they are on fire.

“Yeah, well, since when do you like _any_ sports?” he calls after him, but Cas is out of the door before the last word even leaves Dean’s mouth. “Or sweaters,” Dean mumbles to himself.

Dean tries to stay awake until Cas gets home. He waits at the table with his computer, even watches some soccer in the hopes of learning something he can talk to Cas about later. When Sam finds him face down on the table, passed out, a nearly empty bottle of beer in hand, he calls off his night watch, hoping to catch Cas in the morning.

______________________________

 

The smell of brewing coffee when he wakes propels him out of bed. He throws on a t-shirt and jeans, then rushes to the kitchen.

“Morning, Dean.” Thankfully, Cas is already there, sitting at the table with Sam, drinking bottled water instead of coffee. “Did you sleep okay?”

“I slept great.” Dean lies, fills his own cup. “Fantastic. The best I’ve slept in a long time.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head.

“So what’s this?” Dean flaps his hand at Cas’s sweatpants and ipod armband. “Where’s your coffee?”

“I’m going to a gym.”

“You work out now? Since when?”

Cas shrugs. “I never have. I thought I’d give it a shot.”

“Give it a…?” Dean doesn’t know what to address first -the way Cas is talking or what he’s talking about. “A gym? You’ve already got superpowers and your body hasn’t changed in eight years. What do you think lifting weights is going to do for you?”

“I won’t be lifting weights, Dean. I’m going to a crossfit session.”

“Jesus Christ, why? So you can blast through doors _without_ using your mojo?”

“Is there a reason you don’t want me to go?”

“No. It’s just, I thought you might wanna play a game of pool. With me. It’s been a little while since we did that. Played pool.”

Cas tilts his head to the side. “I think I can make that work,” he says. “Maybe later, though? The guys are expecting me. Can we play it by ear?”

Make it work? The guys? Play it by ear? Dean’s fist tightens around his coffee cup. “Sure. Later.”

“Great.” Cas raises his hand once in their general direction on his way out. “Adios!”

As soon as Sam opens his mouth and says “Dean” with that worried face and that worried voice, Dean rolls his eyes.

“Are you going to tell me what’s up with you two?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dean says, and he can hear his brother grumble behind him as he takes his coffee and stalks off to his room to sulk.

Dean spends most of the day there, alone, coming out only to get food and bring it back in. At some point, he must’ve fallen to sleep, because it’s after two in the morning when he’s woken by a tentative tap on the door.

He pulls himself up, clears the books and magazines off of the bed with a sweep of his arm before he grunts out “come in.”

Dean’s unable to hide his disappointment when it’s Sam, not Cas, who walks through the door.  “What’s so damn important, Sam? I was in bed.”

Sam eyes Dean up and down, undoubtedly noticing that he’s fully dressed, boots and all. To his credit, he doesn't mention it. “I think we should talk about Cas,” he says solemnly.

Fuck. He knows. Sam knows. “Cas? What about Cas?”

“Something’s obviously going on with him, and I’m worried.”

Dean narrows his eyes at Sam. Maybe he doesn’t know. “Yeah, he’s acting like a dick.”

“I wouldn't say that. But he is… changing.”

Dean drops his hands to his hips, nods. “His grace?”

“Maybe. The eating, sleeping, showering - that’s him becoming more human. That might be the result of his fading grace. But the other stuff…” Sam trails off.

Shit. Maybe he does know. “What other stuff?”

“Come on, Dean. Don’t play dumb.”

Dean gulps.

“I know you see it too. The sudden interest in his clothing, sports, the gym. He’s gone out the last three nights in a row. And he was talking about cars the other day, mentioned that he likes having his own car but he may want something sportier.”

Cas _has_ been changing. A lot, actually, since last week at the bar, when they first started their doomed sex adventure. Is Cas changing because of it? Or did it happen because Cas is changing? It’s a classic chicken or the egg situation that needs to be figured out if they want to help Cas, but he can’t exactly tell Sam that.

“Sportier?” Dean says. “He’s turning into a goddamn yuppie.”

“There’s more to this than… wait! What did you say?”

“I said he’s turning into a damn Gap-sweater-wearing yuppie. I don’t like yuppies. Or sweaters.”

Sam grabs Dean’s arm, pushes up the sleeve to see the Mark. It’s strange to Dean that Sam seems relieved once he sees it.

“Yeah, it’s still there, Sam.” Dean jerks his arm free and pushes his sleeve down over the Mark. “Don’t look so happy about it.”

“I’m not happy about it.  It’s just, you told me that when you and Cas ran into a witch last month you almost got hit with a spell, but you didn’t.”

“Yeah, she missed me.”

“What kind of spell was it?”

“Some Benjamin Button crap. But like I said, she missed. Otherwise the Mark’d be gone and I’d be locked in the bathroom with my raging hormones and the latest issue of Busty Asian Beauties.”

Sam’s brows go up. “How is that any different from what you do now?”

“Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Sam nods. “Listen, Dean, that’s not necessarily true, about the spells. All of those de-aging spells aren’t the same. Some are more subtle, or work more slowly. Are you sure she missed?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Cas jumped in front of me. None of it got me.”

“Cas jumped…” Sam scrubs his hand over his mouth. “Did he get hit? You didn’t tell me that Cas got hit.”

“Because it’s no big deal. Cas is immune. Common spells don’t work on angels. C’mon, Sammy, that’s Witchcraft 101.”

“What if it wasn’t a common spell. What if it was a special--”

“What if it was what?”

Sam ducks his head. “Nothing. You’re right. Spells like that don’t work on angels. Look, I’m gonna go to bed. We’ll figure this out tomorrow. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“Well I wasn’t until you said not to. You know something you’re not telling me?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Of course not,” Dean repeats, not entirely convinced. He has nothing but instinct to back it up. “Well, when Cas gets home, we’ll all sit down and talk. See what he has to say.”

“He’s already been here. He changed his clothes and he left again.”

“What?” Dean drops down onto the edge of his bed. “He was supposed to...we were going to play pool!”

“We don’t even have a pool table. Where were you going to play pool at this hour?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Dean springs to his feet, waves Sam off with his hand and bolts past him, out of his room and down the hall to Cas’s room. Sam follows him inside.

“What are you looking for?”

“I don’t know.” Cas’s bed is made, the space is tidy, neat. He scans the room. Other than neatly folded new clothes and personal electronics, there’s nothing unexpected, nothing out of place. He has no idea what he is looking for, and he’s not even sure his motives are anything other than selfish. “Something wrong, I guess.”

Dean starts to pull out the dresser drawers, one at a time. Sam goes over to the desk and does the same.

“I feel like a bad parent,” Sam says.

“Or a good one,” Dean retorts. He closes the last drawer, picks up Cas’s ipod from the dresser top. He puts one earphone in his ear and turns it on.

“Aw geez, it’s worse than we thought.” He makes a sour face as he pulls the small bud out of his ear. “It looks like we’re too late.”

Sam fumbles with the desk drawer, pushes it closed before he spins around to face Dean. “What? What is it?”

“Coldplay. He’s listening to Coldplay.”

“Really, Dean?” Sam reprimands, exasperated. “It’s bad enough we’re invading his privacy. There’s nothing here.”

“Yeah, I guess not,” Dean says, still unsure. He follows Sam out of the room and closes the door behind him.

______________________________

 

Call it a hunch. Or a gut feeling. Whatever it is, it makes Dean want to follow Sam when Sam quietly leaves the bunker in the middle of the night, shortly after the two of them tossed Cas’s room. Sam’s behavior is suspicious. He knows something that he’s not sharing, and Dean’s going to find out what it is.

He can’t tail him. There’s not enough traffic at this hour, and Sam is much too smart for that. Sam is also clever enough to turn off the GPS on his cell phone. But Sam doesn’t know, since Dean hasn’t told him yet, that he put a few personal tracking devices on the vehicles he and Sam use; the Impala and two other beaters from the garage that Sam seemed to be fond of. As long as he takes one of those, Dean can "follow" him with his computer or phone.

Fortunately, Sam takes the old truck. Dean tracks him to a location about twenty miles away, outside of town. Dean writes down the address, sticks it in his pocket. Sam doesn't stay there long, and it’s only a few minutes before the truck is moving again and headed back towards the bunker.

Dean wants to go right now and see where Sam went. Might as well, since he can't sleep. His brother's got him thinking. About Cas. About the spell. About what, if anything, Sam is hiding from him.

He grabs the Impala’s keys from his dresser and throws his jacket on when his phone goes off. He’s surprised to see a two-word text from Cas.

_something’s wrong_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel compelled to disclose that I love Coldplay...


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a good thing that yuppie Cas didn’t get a new car, because he wouldn’t be able to spread out face down in the back seat like he is now if he’d been driving something “sportier.”

But Dean is too much of a gentleman to point that out. Instead he reaches in and smacks Cas hard on his backside. Cas groans, then coughs and vomits on the floor.

“That’s nice,” Dean snarks. “That’s just great. Now you actually _are_ gonna need a new car.”

When Cas texted that something was wrong, Dean was worried, concerned that it had to do with his grace or, after talking with Sam, the spell. But once he dialed Cas’s number and spoke to him, he was pretty sure that Cas was merely intoxicated. One whiff confirms that diagnosis. He’s relieved. With all of the mostly needless worrying that Sam does, he supposes that it was inevitable that some of it would rub off on him.

Dean waits outside of Cas’s car with his arms crossed until it sounds like Cas has gotten out everything he needs to get out. Dean is used to foul-smelling things - coming face-to-face with monsters for a living has its downside - but he still sucks in a deep breath and holds it while he hauls Cas up and out of his vehicle, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Done with the hurling?”

Cas nods, sort of. Dean opens the Impala’s door and dumps him into the front seat. He’s not gentle.

“You wanna play hard, Cas? Then you’re gonna have to suffer the consequences.” Dean slides into the driver’s seat, jams his key into the ignition as he looks over at his passenger, whose head has fallen back, eyes closed, mouth open. “Dumb son of a bitch,” Dean grumbles, not quite under his breath.

“Something’s wrong,” Cas murmurs, doesn’t open his eyes.

“You’re damn right something’s wrong,” Dean snarls. “It’s liquor before beer, Cas. Always, liquor before beer. Didn’t think I’d ever have to teach that to an angel, but apparently, it’s something you need to learn.”

He was going to drive by the address in his pocket, make Cas wait in the car while he checked it out, and even though he seems a little bit better after emptying his stomach, he can’t do it. Cas still looks pathetic, and there is a distinct possibility that he could start throwing up again, and that cannot, under any circumstances, happen in Baby. He has no intention of coddling Cas, but he’ll get him home and into bed before he goes to check things out. He starts the car, begins the short trip back to the bunker. He wants to drive fast, to get there before Cas loses it again, but instead he takes his time, goes slowly to avoid bumps, keep the car from rocking too much.

“It’s not what you think,” Cas sighs.

“Oh really? It’s not? You’re not drunk off your ass? You didn’t just puke your guts out in the back of what used to be a perfectly good car?”

“Dean, I only--”

“And where are your little drinking buddies? Eh, Cas?” Dean feels a sense of karmic satisfaction that he is not proud of. “Where are ‘the guys’ now? Did they just leave you here because they had to go crossfit something?”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Cas manages to croak out.

“Yeah, well, you know what I mean.” Dean huffs, presses down on the gas pedal. “Maybe you should choose your friends more wisely.”

Cas presses one hand against his stomach as he narrows his eyes at Dean, then turns his head away and stares out of the side window, wistful. “Maybe I should,” he says softly.

Dean is at a loss for words, unexpectedly slapped in the face by his own self-righteous rant. He slows the car down and silently concentrates on the road ahead of them.

______________________________

 

With a shrug of his shoulder, Cas refuses Dean’s help and stumbles off to his own room as soon as they arrive at the bunker.

“Fine.  Sleep it off!” Dean yells after Cas as he disappears around the corner towards the private bedrooms. He can’t really reason with him right now anyway.

“Dean? Is everything okay?”

It’s Sam. He must have made it back to the bunker just before he and Cas did. Dean waves him off and heads for the kitchen. Sam follows him.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

He spins around and Sam jumps back, surprised. “What, Sam? What do you want?”

“Calm down. What’s wrong?”

“What’s _wrong_? I just had to pick up Cas because he drank himself sick and his friends just left him on the side of the road, while you…” Dean stops, cocks his head. “Where _did_ you go, Sam?” Dean asks. It’s a test. He knows where Sam went. At least he knows the coordinates.

“Nowhere. Just up the road for some milk and beer.”

Damn it. Sam’s lying to him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Check the fridge. It’s in there. Eggs too.”

Dean stomps over to the vintage refrigerator and tugs the door open to find milk, eggs, and beer. It’s all there. He must have stopped at the store on the way back from wherever he was. Of course Sam’s smart enough to create his own alibi.

“Dean, you’ve been on edge lately. I think maybe the Mark--”

“ _The Mark_ isn’t the problem,” Dean says. He’s agitated, that much is certain, but he doesn’t feel it in the Mark, hasn’t really since Cas agreed to take a room at the bunker after Hannah dumped him for Heaven. “Whatever’s gotten into Cas is the problem, and…” He stops himself. He doesn’t want Sam to know that he knows that he’s up to something, something he’s hiding from Dean, and probably Cas too. “And that’s it,” he says calmly.

Sam’s eyes flit around the room before they settle on the floor. “I’m working on that,” he says.

“And what exactly is that?” Dean asks. “That you’re working on?”

“Cas’s grace,” Sam says. “I’m trying to figure out what we can do...or how we can find…” he trails off.

“Yeah, well you just keep working on that,” Dean says, then pats him on the shoulder. “I’m going out for a drink. If I hurry, I’ll make it just in time for last call. “ Dean winks for effect. “Don’t wait up for me, little brother. I’m an old man now. These things take longer than they used to.”

“What things?” Sam asks. He’s baffled at first, and Dean understands why, since he hasn’t shown much of an interest recently in late-night bar hook-ups, but after half a minute or so, Sam catches on.

“Oh, okay, sure Dean. Be careful,” he says. “I need to get back to the books.”

______________________________

 

It’s still dark, but it won’t be for much longer. He’s been parked outside of some sort of store that sells yarn for nearly an hour now, waiting. He fingers the screen of his phone. There’s no call or text from Sam, so Cas is probably sleeping, doing just fine without him.  As always.

Just as he checks again that he has the correct address, a light goes on inside the business. He gets out of the car, moves a little closer and watches through the storefront window for another minute, gathering information that he will use to determine his approach.

There’s a woman inside, stocking shelves with yarn. She appears to be alone, so Dean knocks on the front door, opting for the direct approach.

The woman comes to the door and smiles at Dean, points to the sign that indicates that they are closed.

“We’ll be open in two hours,” she says loudly. He can hear her through the door.

“It can’t wait,” Dean says. “It’s an emergency.”

She frowns. “I’m sorry, but I’m trying to envision what possible kind of emergency might call for yarn at six o’clock in the morning.”

“Funny,” Dean scoffs. He’s not wearing his suit, but with a tiny shake of the head he pulls out his FBI badge anyway and flashes it. “It should only take a few minutes.” 

Her demeanor changes when she sees the badge and she lets him into the store, answers all of his made-up questions about made-up recent break-ins. He brushes her off when she questions why the FBI is investigating local burglaries that she hadn’t even heard about, and he manages to snoop around pretty thoroughly when he uses the restroom in the back of the building while she takes a phone call.  He leaves there wondering if he’s made a mistake, if the tracking device on the truck has malfunctioned and whether or not he owes his brother an apology.

______________________________

 

Dean musses his own hair, takes a quick swig from the bottle, spills some beer on himself for effect before going back inside the bunker. Sam is still awake and in the library. Dean feigns a walk of shame, stumbles past him with a quick wave. When he gets to the bedroom hall, he stops at Cas’s door, squats down and listens through the vent. He’s satisfied when he hears loud breathing and rustling blankets, and he continues on to his own room.

After pulling off his boots, he falls back on the bed, exhausted. He wants to sleep, but he can’t stop thinking about the witch, the spell, and Cas. Cas hadn’t even moved into the bunker yet when they were attacked with the spell. In fact, Dean was under the impression that Cas had better things to do. Things like, more specifically, an angel named Hannah.  He’d wasted no time getting back on the road with his new angelic bestie right after Dean was de-demonized, and ran off again before Dean woke up after killing Cain. Although he’d been a little hurt by Cas’s apparent aversion to sticking around, he wanted him to be happy, if that was at all in the cards for him.

Dean remembers clearly the day not long ago when things changed. He had just gotten off of the phone with Sam. He was sitting alone on a bench in the park, watching people and thinking about praying when Cas came up from behind and sat down on the bench next to him.  Dean asked casually about Hannah’s whereabouts.  Cas told him that she was gone, that she had been for several weeks, and that she wouldn’t be coming back. He seemed sad about it, maybe even a little bit lost, but also, Dean felt, relieved, and Dean took the opportunity to do something he’d wanted to do for a very long time - he offered Cas a room at the bunker. He never thought he’d accept.

“I think I’d like that Dean,” Cas said. “At least for a little while. At least until…” He stopped mid-sentence. Dean wasn’t certain what Cas was going to say, but he knew that whatever it was, he was better off not hearing it.

“Yeah?” Dean smiled, and when Cas smiled back, Dean got stuck. Stuck on thoughts, on notions about things he was never meant to have. None of them were new, but they were, nevertheless, absurd.

It threw him off for only a moment, long enough to be caught off guard. But Cas was not and he sprang from the bench and flung himself between Dean and the witch. She released the spell then, and when Cas hit the ground in front of her, she managed to run off, disappearing as quickly as she had appeared. Dean never even saw her face.

“Cas, are you okay?” Dean ran over to his friend and helped him get up on his feet.

Cas squinted and sniffed the air, rubbed the invisible substance between his fingers before he nodded. “It appears to be a form of fundamental age reversion spell…” he sniffed again. “I am immune to such magic.”

Cas assured him that those spells, like most other spells, were impotent when used against angels. That was enough for Dean. And since there was nothing to worry about, Dean never even told Sam that Cas took the hit because knowing Sam, he would worry about it needlessly.

He probably should have followed up on it back then. In fact, he meant to, was planning to investigate on his own who or what was behind the witch’s attack, but he was enjoying his time with Sam and Cas, the three of them hunting together as a team then coming home to the bunker, like a family. It was a different version of family, unlike any he had before, but it was no less important to him, and even though he had nearly screwed it all up by fooling around with Cas, he's going to do everything in his power to keep this family together.


	5. Chapter 5

He manages to log a few hours of sleep before the rough knock on his door wakes him. Cas enters his room swiftly as Dean struggles to gain consciousness.

“Hey, I need the keys to your car.”

There’s no way he heard that right. There’s no way Cas just asked…

“Dean. I said can I borrow the Impala?”

Dean rubs his eyes with his fists. “What? No.”

“I just want to--”

“Hell no.”

“All right, then take me to get my car.”

“You trashed your car. It’s a goner.”

“I can fix it.” Cas holds up two fingers. “Angel, remember?”

As if he could ever forget. “Cas, maybe you shouldn’t be wasting your grace on things like that.”

“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

“And maybe you should-- wait. Did you say I should mind my own…?” He doesn’t finish. His eyes now fully focused, he’s struck dumb by what he sees standing in his doorway. “Cas, what are you wearing?”

Cas’s tight jeans have been replaced with loose ones that sit below his hips. Dean knows this because when Cas throws his arms up in a frustrated gesture, his light blue t-shirt rides up and bares the skin beneath it. He’s touched that skin, tanned and smooth, but before he has time to think about that for much longer, Cas retrieves a knit cap from his back pocket and stretches it over his head.

“Fine. I’m out of here.”

Dean watches in stupefied wonder as Cas turns on his sneakered heels and storms out of the room.

“What the hell just happened?” he says out loud, to himself. He stays there, stunned, for a few minutes before he goes to find his brother.

Sam is in the library, as usual, but instead of reading a book or browsing on his laptop, he is staring off into space, his face blank.

“Sam, have you seen Cas this morning?”

Sam nods but doesn’t look at him.

“Did he say anything to you?”

Sam nods again. “I asked him where he was going, suggested he eat something before he left.”

“And?”

“He told me that I had no right to tell him what to do. That I’m not in charge of him.” Sam looks up at Dean. “And then he left.”

Dean shakes his head, drops his hands to his hips. “He just came to my room, acting like a spoiled brat.”

“Or maybe he’s just acting like a teenager.”

“Huh?”

“I think…” Sam shakes his head, rubs his large hand across his forehead. “I think that Cas is aging in reverse.”

“Angels don’t age forward, so how can they age in reverse?”

“I’m not exactly sure.”

“But he looks the same.” Dean’s not protesting, just thinking out loud. “How do you figure?”

Sam slumps forward in his chair, elbows firmly planted on the table. “It’s affecting him differently, abnormally.  It doesn’t seem to be physically de-aging him. It’s just… I don’t know how to explain it, but it's like he’s getting younger... emotionally.”

It makes complete sense and no sense at all. “Because of his grace?”

“Maybe. Probably.”

“Well, those spells generally wear off.” Sam should know this. Dean’s concerned, of course, but Sam looks as though he broke the world - again. “If not, they can be reversed.”

“Not this one.”

“Not this one? How do you know that?” How _does_ he know that? Cas didn’t know it. And now that he thinks about it, even though he thought she had missed, Sam didn’t even ask him what kind of spell the witch tossed at them until yesterday, yet the first thing Sam did was check Dean’s arm - the Mark - before Dean ever disclosed the hex details.

“Sam, answer me. How do you know that the spell isn’t temporary?"

“I, I don’t.” Sam stammers as he backpedals, refuses to make eye contact with Dean. “I’m only guessing.”

“You’re guessing,” Dean repeats slowly while he studies Sam, his head down, jaw twitching. He doesn’t know why Sam lies to him so much; he’s too good inside to pull it off.  “You sounded pretty sure about it to me.”

“Well I’m not. But I’ll figure it out.” Sam lifts his head and faces Dean. “I will, Dean. I promise, I’ll figure it out.”

Even though he knows now that Sam is hiding something, whatever it is is eating him up, and Dean can’t help but soften. “Okay. I know you will.”

Sam shuts his computer and stands up. “I’m going to go get some food.  You want anything?  A burger, or something?”

“Nah, thanks.” Dean taps his fingers on the table, then calls after his brother as he walks away. “Hey Sammy?”

“Yeah, Dean?”

“Don’t take the truck.”  It’s a calculated risk, but he knows Sam, knows how he thinks. “I’ve been working on the Chevy hatchback, and she’s running pretty smooth. You should take her out for a drive.”

Sam’s forehead creases while he considers. “I left my wallet in the truck,” he says after nearly half a minute. “I’m not going far. I’ll check out the hatchback next time.”

“Whatever,” Dean says, and even though he manages to sound disappointed, he has to bite his bottom lip to keep it from giving him away. “Next time.”

When he hears the door shut, Dean hurries to his room, grabs his phone from his desk. He stares at it, hoping that he is wrong, that his brother really is going out to get food and that the dot moving along the screen makes an unexpected turn, but it doesn’t. Sam’s path is clear.

Looks like there won’t be an apology after all.

______________________________

 

It’s impossible to actually tail Sam in the Impala, and even more impossible to do it in broad daylight, so he doesn’t even try. He uses the Chevy hatchback, which Sam might also recognize if he’s not careful, but it blends in, doesn’t have the presence of the Impala. He also waits, gives Sam a five to ten minute lead so that he can stay completely out of sight.

He parks down the street from the yarn shop. Sam’s truck is parked in front of it, but Sam must be inside since he’s nowhere in sight. He contemplates whether he should take the stealthy route through a back door, but decides against it. It will be surprise enough for Sam to see him there at all.

A bell dings when Dean opens the door and steps inside. He snatches it, closes his hand around it to silence it. There’s no one around. He takes slow, soft steps toward the hushed voices coming from the back of the store, from behind a curtained opening to another room.

“I’ve told you, I can’t even begin to work on a counter spell without knowing what was used in the original spell.”

Dean recognizes that voice. It’s the woman he spoke to when he came here early this morning.

“Well you had better find a way,” Sam demands.

“I’ve got a customer,” she says then calls out “be right there!”

“You have to help me.” Sam sounds desperate, his tone pleading. “Please.”

“Look, I like you. You seem like a sweet kid, so I’m not even going to ask how you got mixed up in this wicked business. But it seems like you’re way out of your league.”

Dean smirks. Out of Sam’s league? She has no frigging idea who she’s dealing with.

“So, because I’m a nice witch, I’ll help you,” she continues. “But I need that information before I can even start.”

“I’ll get it,” Sam says.

“The sooner the better.” The woman continues to speak while she pulls back the curtain and comes into the main store. Sam is right behind her. “Time is not--”

“Dean!” Sam stops in his tracks when he sees his brother.

“Oh, look who’s back,” the witch moans, then turns to Sam. "Did I forget to mention that your friend from the park was here this morning pretending to be FBI?"

Sam scowls at the witch, draws in a deep breath. “Dean, what, what are you doing here?” he stammers.  

“Isn’t that the very question you should be fielding?” Dean doesn’t move. He has to keep an eye on the witch, so he lets his brother come to him.

“I came for help with Cas,” Sam says.

“What kind of help?” Dean asks, side-eyeing the witch who is now next to him. 

“He’s looking for more magic,” she says.

Dean’s brow quirks when he hears that. “ _More_ magic?” He steps closer to Sam. “Was it you, Sam?  Were you the one behind the spell?’

Sam swallows hard, nods once. “Dean, let me explain--”

“Boys, boys, boys.” The witch steps between them, pushes them away from each other. “We can’t undo what’s been done, but I may be able to be of further help. For a price, of course.”

“You?” Dean shakes his head and snorts. “You didn’t even do what you were paid to do the first time.”  

She narrows her eyes at him, indignant. “I did exactly what Sam Winchester asked of me.”

“Right,” Dean jeers. “You fucking missed.”

Witch’s mouth drops open in a silent “oh.” She takes a step back and glares at Dean. “How dare you! I did _not_ miss. I am a professional.”

Dean taps his chest. “Take a good look, Elphaba. I’m not a day younger.”

“Of course not. You weren’t the mark. The other one was the mark.”

“What?” Dean and Sam say it at almost the same time, and Dean is bewildered as to why Sam looks as shocked as he does. Dean questions his brother without words. Sam responds with a shake of his head.

“No,” Sam says. “Dean, no.”

“You called me after you left,” the witch says to Sam. “You told me the spell was for the pretty one with blue eyes and a trench coat.”

“I didn’t,” Sam insists. “Dean, you have to believe me. I never would... I never wanted…”

“What have you done, Sam?” Dean grits his teeth, clenches his jaw and keeps his voice low. “What in God’s name have you done?”

______________________________

 

As he had hoped, the car ride back to the bunker calmed him down, but not enough. Sam drove faster than he did, because he’s already there, waiting for Dean and ready to continue their conversation the minute he walks through the door.

“It was supposed to de-age you by three years,” he tells Dean. “Only three years, and then the Mark would be gone and you wouldn’t even notice anything was different. That was the plan, anyway.”

“So you hired a witch to make a spell for that?”

“Not exactly.” Sam is nervous, jittery, and he won’t make eye contact with Dean from across the map table. “I wasn’t convinced that de-aging alone would get rid of it permanently, or that it wouldn’t come back once you aged again, so there was something else in the spell to make sure that once it was gone, it was gone.”

“What else was in the spell, Sam?”

“I found out that the Mark was created with angel grace. Lucifer used his own to infuse the Mark onto Cain. Some of that grace was transferred to you when you took the Mark. And so..." Sam stops there, closes his eyes and covers his face with his hand.  

"And so?"

Sam scrubs his hand down his face and continues. "And so the spell was also designed to consume grace.”

“Consume grace?” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “So all this time the spell has been eating up Cas’s grace?”

Sam nods. “And the less grace he has, the more the other part of the spell affects him. It seems to be working exponentially.”

Dean drops his chin, slams his fist on the table and Sam flinches.

“We didn’t mean for this to happen. You have to know--”

Dean looks up quickly. “Who’s ‘we’?”

“What?”

“You said ‘we.’ Who is ‘we.’?”  

“Dean, listen to me.” Sam straightens in his chair, lays both hands on the table in front of him. “I was desperate. And alone. I needed help. I had to save you, and Cas refused to--”

Dean’s patience, the little that he has, has run out. Sam’s excuses only anger him further. “I swear to God, Sam, to all of the gods, if you don’t answer my question I’m gonna--”

“Crowley,” Sam spits out. “Crowley helped me. His mother is a witch. He went to her for help.”

“He’s a fucking demon.”

“Yes, he is. But he’s also your--”

“Don’t say it.” Dean knows what Sam is about to say and he cuts him off, for both of their sakes. “Don’t you dare say it.”

“Dean, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“So it was Crowley who tricked the witch into using the spell on Cas.” Dean vows to himself that he will kill the King of Hell next time he sees him. He should have killed him a long fucking time ago.

“No, I can’t believe that. He wants you cured. He wouldn’t.”

“He wouldn’t?" Dean shoots up from his seat, knocking the chair down behind him. Sam is defending Crowley? Sam, of all people? “You sure about that Sam? You willing to bet Cas’s _life_ on that?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He sits still and stares straight ahead of him, mouth squeezed shut.

“Oh, right,” Dean says. “You already did.”

“I will fix this,” Sam says slowly, enunciating each word.

Dean has to get out of there. Now. “I can’t stay here. I'm leaving, and I'm taking Cas with me.” Dean turns away, begins to walk in the direction of the bedrooms.

“For how long?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Where are you going?”

Dean stops, looks back at Sam over his shoulder. “You don’t get to know that, Sam.”

“Dean, please.”

Dean holds up his hand. He’s out of words. There’s nothing more he can or should say to his brother. He goes to his room and packs, then does the same for Cas. He flings the bags over his shoulder and walks past Sam without a glance in his direction on his way out of the bunker door. At least Sam has the sense to sit still and shut up.

Once he is in the driver’s seat of the Impala, he calls Cas.  “Hey buddy, where are you? I’m coming to pick you up. You and me are going on a hunt.”


	6. Chapter 6

Cas plops onto the bed closest to the motel room door and sprawls out on his back. “I thought we were going hunting. This is boring.”

Dean sits at the table, his nose in his laptop. “We are.” He glances over at Cas, who is playing with the hem of his shirt, stretching it out enough that Dean can see the bottom line of the tattoo on his belly. He’s never touched the tattoo, even though he wanted to. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. It seemed too personal, too intimate, but mostly it reminded him too much of a time when his best friend was powerless and vulnerable and Dean’s selfish choices got him killed.

“Let me guess, research?” Cas sighs dramatically.

“Yes, research. Why don’t you watch TV for a little while.”

“Fine,” Cas sits up, grabs the remote, and turns the television on. He flicks through the channels with a painfully put out expression, until he finds something that clearly interests him.

“You don’t care if I buy some porn, do you Dean?”

“What? No! I mean yes, I do care. No porn.”

“Why not? It’s for research. I _would_ use my computer, but it was in my car. Remember _my_ car? The one that you wouldn’t drive me to pick up, so it got towed to who the fuck knows where?”

Even though he now knows what the cause of it is, that it isn't Cas's fault, it’s jarring to hear him use profanity. “Sorry about that. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow.”

“A new car?” Cas raises his brows.

“No. Computer.”

“So you’ll spend the money for a new computer but you’re too cheap to spring for twenty dollar cable porn?”

“It’s not the money.”

“Then what is it?”

Dean plans to tell him, has to tell him, soon, about the spell. But not right now, not this minute. Besides, Dean still needs to work out exactly how he's going to tell the emotionally compromised angel.

“Nevermind.” Cas clicks the TV off and tosses the remote onto the other bed. “I have a better idea. anyway.”

“And what’s that.”

“We play pool.” Cas kicks off his shoes, and just in case Dean doesn’t understand, he reaches for his fly and fingers the zipper tab. “I’m pretty sure I owe you a game.”

“Oh no.” Dean holds up his palm and shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no, no, no.”

“Come on, Dean. I think I’m ready to play up, if you catch my drift.”

Dean stares at him and swallows because he does catch his drift. During the short time since they began sneaking off into Dean’s room to play pool, there was a lot of groping and rubbing and pulling between them, but that was the extent of it. They were both beginners when it came to man sex, and Cas wanted to take it all in and move slowly. Very slowly. Even their single oral encounter ended sooner than it should have, thanks to Cas’s inability to follow basic rules.

Cas has his pants off and his thumbs inside the waistband of his underwear by the time Dean comes back to his senses. It’s all he can do to not jump on that bed and help Cas finish stripping, but Cas isn’t Cas right now, at least not adult Cas. Despite appearances, Dean is the only grownup in the room.

“I said no, Cas.” Dean turns away from him and back to his research. Cas grumbles something under his breath and Dean doesn’t look up from his computer until he hears the bathroom door slam shut.

When Cas emerges thirty minutes later, he’s in an only slightly better mood, having partaken in a shower, and probably other things that teenage boys do in locked bathrooms.

“What kind of hunt are we going on?” Cas whines. “And why did we leave the bunker just to stay in some crappy motel thirty minutes away?”

“We’ll talk about it later.”

Cas throws his duffel bag on the bed and sifts through it. “I’m hungry.”

“What do you want to eat?”

Cas shrugs with indifference. “Food.”

“Food. Right. Of course.” Dean closes his computer, pushes it aside.

“I don’t see my ipod in here. You didn’t bring my ipod?”

Dean exhales, controls his breathing and slaps his hands on his thighs. He has to be patient, he knows, but this is going to be difficult. “Sorry. I didn’t see it.”

“I own maybe six things besides my clothes. I have my phone and my blade, and you already lost my car and computer. You couldn’t manage to pack what was left?”

“I was in a hurry. I brought your suit and your badge, though.”

Cas rolls his eyes. “Awesome.”

“How about we go out and play an actual game of pool. Grab some food at the bar.”

Cas stops to think about it. He wants to. Dean can tell by the subtle shift of his shoulders and the loosening of the muscles along his chin and jaw, even though he’s trying very hard to act like he doesn’t. Cas may have never been a teenager before, but Dean has.

“And while we’re out, I’ll show you how you can listen to music from your phone. Deal?”

It only takes a few seconds for Cas to respond with feigned submission. “Okay, deal.”

______________________________

 

After he and Cas eat nachos and pretzels for dinner, Dean wins a table for them while Cas looks on.

“That was impressive.” Cas walks around to the front of the table while Dean racks the balls. “So explain to me again why we’re not drinking?”

Dean drops the rack when he’s done, swipes some chalk over the tip of his cue stick, then tosses the blue cube across the table to Cas.

“Because I’m giving up drinking and you’re being a supportive friend and also not drinking.”

Cas snickers. “What makes you think I want to be a supportive friend?”

“Because it’s what best friends do.”

“So we’re best friends?”

“Uhm, yeah.”

“And how the hell did I manage that?”

“Let’s see, there’s pulling me out of hell for starters, saving my ass on the regular, choosing people over Heaven. Just the usual shit that best friends do for each other.”

Cas smiles at him - probably the first genuine one he’s seen from the angel all day - and Dean smiles back. “I racked ‘em. Why don’t you go ahead and break ‘em.”

______________________________

 

Cas is good at pool. There’s no denying that. They play alone, just the two of them because they refuse all requests from other patrons to challenge or join them. Dean is directly behind Cas when he raises one leg and slides his upper body up onto the edge of the table in an attempt to negotiate the lack of space between the pool stick and the wall. Dean tries not to appreciate the view, even the baggy pants can’t hide the well-shaped firmness of Cas’s rear end, and unfortunately, Dean notices that he’s not the only one noticing.

Dean moves a little closer in an attempt to block Cas from public view. “You don’t have to do that. Just use your stubby.”

Cas jumps off of the table, raises one brow at Dean. “My what?”

“The short stick,” Dean laughs. “What the hell did you think I--never mind.” Dean is glad now that he never bothered to actually verbalize any of the “playing pool” metaphors that his mind came up with when he and Cas were doing whatever it was they were doing, although he’s no longer so sure that Cas wouldn’t have understood them.

Cas switches out his cue stick and sinks the ball. He does the same with the next one. And the one after that. Dean sits back and watches him proudly. The sulky adolescent from the motel is enjoying himself, and Dean’s willing to do this all night if he can keep that smile on Cas’s face.

It’s soon after they start game eight that Cas begins to fidget with his pool cue while he restlessly skims the rest of the large room.

“You okay?” It could be anything; the spell, the grace, even teenage angst. Dean doesn’t want to guess. “You need another soda? Some water?”

“Nah, I’m good.” Cas drops his stick onto the table and pulls up his droopy pants. “I’m gonna, uh, use the lav.”

“Okay.” Dean’s phone vibrates in his pocket while Cas walks away. He doesn’t need to look at it to know it’s Sam. Sam, who’s been calling every thirty minutes since he left the bunker, and doesn’t seem to be able to take a hint. He’ll call him back. He has no other choice if he wants to cure Cas, but they won’t have anything close to a productive discussion if he calls back now. He needs more time to cool off.

Dean leans over the table and continues to play on his own. He looks around the bar, suspiciously. He trusts no one, and Cas has been gone for too long now. He moseys over to the restroom area, positions himself at the end of the hall where he has a view of the men’s room door. When a man he had seen go into the bathroom comes out, he checks his watch. It’s been fifteen minutes. Too long. Something’s wrong.

Dean rushes through the door, concerned, only to find Cas sitting on the counter next to the sink, beer in hand, engaged in conversation with two men in front of him. One of them hands Cas a cigarette, which he accepts with his free hand, and Cas takes a long, deep pull off of it before Dean takes in the distinctive scent in the air and recognizes that what they are passing around is not a cigarette at all.

“Cas!” Dean freezes because he is angry. Angry at Cas, angry at himself, but mostly angry at the two strangers who are looking at him like he’s the one who doesn’t belong there.

“Ah. My ride’s here.” Cas extends his arm, offers the joint to Dean. “Want a hit?”

“A hit? Are you crazy? Come on, let’s go! We’re leaving now.” He feels his blood pressure rise, the Mark on his arm tingle.

“Dude sounds more like your old man than your ride,” the one closest to Cas says, then sneers at Dean. “You don’t have to go anywhere with him, Sunshine. We’ve got plenty more where this came from. Anywhere you want to go, I can get you there.”

Dean reacts without thinking, grabs the guy and shoves him against the wall, holds him there with one fist clenched in the man’s shirt, punches him in the face with the other. Dean’s fist rears back for a second blow when he hears Cas.

“Dean, no! Don’t!”

He stops himself, and when Cas leaps off of the counter and grabs his arm, he releases the man and lets him fall to the floor. Cas leads him quickly out of the bathroom and the bar and to the car.

Neither one says a word on the way back to the motel.

______________________________

 

It’s the middle of the night when Dean awakens to the sound of retching coming from the bathroom.

The door is closed so he knocks, asks Cas if he is okay, if he needs any help. Cas says he’s fine, but Dean waits outside the door until the sounds from within stop and Cas comes out. He has stripped down to his boxer briefs, but is exhausted from the effort, so Dean helps him back to the bed and pours a glass of water for his bedside.

“You don’t want to get dehydrated,” he explains.

“It’s just like last time,” Cas says, his voice rough and scratchy. “But worse.”

“Last time you were drinking and--”

“I had one beer.” Cas pushes down the covers and slides into the bed. “Last time. I only had one beer.”

“One beer? You should’ve told me that, Cas.”

“I tried to.”

“If I had known that I might have figured things out sooner than I did.”

“Figured what out?”

Dean folds only the cotton sheet over Cas. He can feel the heat of fever in the angel’s body. Too much heat. He lays his open palm across Cas’s forehead. He gets the aspirin from his bag, shakes a few of them out into his hand. He has no idea how many he should give Cas, but he settles on eight and he pours them out into his palm, then hands them to Cas two at a time. “You’re burning up," he tells Cas after the pills have all been washed down with a full glass of water. "I’ll be right back.”

He hesitates to leave him alone, even for only a minute to get ice, but he has to, and when he returns to the room with a full bucket, he wraps two pieces in a damp washcloth, sits on the edge of the bed and carefully places it on Cas’s forehead.

“That will help,” Dean says.

Cas nods. “Dean, there’s something else I should have told you.”

“What’s that?”

“It wasn’t _people_ that I chose over Heaven.”

“No?” 

“No. It was you. I chose you.”

Dean removes the wet cloth from Cas’s still warm forehead, leans forward and blows softly on the damp skin until it is dry. It’s something his mother used to do for him, something he always found soothing. Cas does too. His eyelids flicker closed, his parted lips quiver and curl upwards.

“I know,” Dean utters as he pulls the sheet up, tucks it over Cas’s shoulders. “Now get some more sleep.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dean opens one eye at a time, slowly, deliberately, as if his body knows before his mind has a chance to that Cas is standing beside his bed, watching him. He groans as he pushes himself up on his elbows, wipes a hand over his face. After three hours of sleep, Dean’s stiffer than usual.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

It’s Cas’s voice, low and gruff, but it doesn’t really sound like Cas. Dean looks up when he hears him, is relieved to see that he still looks like Cas, with his pinched lips and eyes that bore into Dean as if their only interest lies somewhere inside of him.

“Yeah, buddy. Something’s wrong,” Dean says. “We need to talk.”

______________________________

 

Cas doesn’t say much, but that’s not exactly out of the ordinary. He seems to take the news that Sam was behind the spell a helluva lot better than Dean did, once Dean explains about Hansel and the witch and how the Mark had disappeared when he’d reverted to his teenage self. Cas doesn’t eat the food he ordered, instead he concentrates on pushing it around his plate with his fork.

“So, that’s pretty much it,” Dean says. “Cas, buddy, you listening to me?” He reaches over and takes the fork out of Cas’s hand, tries to get his attention. It works for a second or two.

“Yes.” Cas picks up a piece of bacon and begins tearing it into pieces, letting them fall back onto his plate.

“We have to talk about what’s happening. To your grace and your, your, your…” Dean fumbles for the right word. “Your, uh, mindset.”

“Okay.” Cas slides his drink in front of him, slurps from the bottom of the glass with his straw.

“Okay,” Dean repeats. “Do you have any questions?”

“No.”

“Come on,” Dean coaxes. “You must have some questions.”

Cas stops sucking from his straw long enough to say “maybe one.”

“All right then.” Dean nods, his hands folded neatly in front of him on the faux marble tabletop. “Go ahead.”

“Was the house made of candy?”

Dean’s forehead creases when he mashes his brows together. “What house?”

“The witch’s house.” Dean detects Cas’s familiar inflection of annoyance. “Where Hansel was and you were kept prisoner. Was it made of gingerbread and candy, like in the story?”

“Jesus, no! The house wasn’t made of candy.” The words come out louder and harsher than they should, and Dean glances around the diner to make sure he hasn’t attracted too much attention.

Cas narrows his eyes at Dean. “Why are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Then why are you yelling?”

“I’m not…” Dean exhales, measured and controlled, before he continues. “I’m sorry.” He offers a more temperate tone. “I’m just trying to talk to you about… the situation.”

Cas folds his arms in defiance. “I don’t want to.”

“Cas, come on.” Dean leans forward over the table and lowers his voice. “I don’t think you understand what--”

“I _do_ understand. That’s why I don’t want to talk about it.”

This is the point in the conversation that probably calls for comforting words, assurances that everything is going to be all right, that Cas will be just fine. Dean tries to say those things, tries to come up with those words, but he can’t. Cas doesn’t need some disingenuous pep talk about the power of Team Free Will and how they can overcome anything as long as they work together. Despite the human behaviors disrupting his angelic countenance, curse imposed and otherwise, Cas has, and always will, operate on basic truth. He wishes he could say the same of Sam, of himself for that matter.

Cas looks back at Dean and shrugs. “I was dying, anyway. Now it’s sooner, that’s all.”

Dean sucks in a breath. Cas’s apathy knocks the air out of his lungs, hurts him physically. It’s not an adolescent act, it’s not a play for attention. Cas doesn’t care if he dies.

“Cas,” Dean manages to mutter. “Don’t do that. That’s not how we--”

“Sorry to disappoint you.” Cas snaps. “Again.”

“Again? What are you talking about?”

Cas slumps back against the bench seat, his shoulders pulled in as he looks up and out of the window. “I want to go home,” he says.

Dean has no idea which home Cas means, and he’s too afraid of the answer to ask. But if Cas tells him he wants to return to his brothers and sisters, to spend the rest of his time in Heaven rather than with Dean on this literally God-forsaken planet, he’ll do whatever he can, pray to every goddamn angel he knows, to make it happen.

“Can we go back to the bunker now, Dean?”

Dean quietly releases the tiny breath he’d been holding. “Yeah, sure. I’ll give Sam a call and tell him we’re on our way.”

______________________________

 

Cas studies the laptop computers on display as he walks up and down the store aisle, reaches out to touch one here and there. Dean steps away to call Sam, keeps his eye on Cas the whole time.

“Dean, thank God. How’s Cas?” Sam sounds relieved and Dean resents it. A lot.

“How the hell do you think he is, Sam?” Dean barks into the phone.  He wants to make it clear to his brother that he hasn’t forgiven him.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Then silence, until Sam clears his throat and speaks again. “Does he know?”

“I just told him. At breakfast.”

“How did he take it?”

“Like a champ.” Dean clenches his teeth, to stop any more angry words from coming out. “Like a twelve-year-old champ. He wants to go back to the bunker, so we’re headed that way as soon as he picks out a new computer.”

“So you haven’t even listened to _any_ of my voice mails?”

He hasn’t. He was ignoring Sam, and his phone, and that included texts and messages.

Sam goes on. “I’m trying to find out what Crowley’s up to. He claims he had no intention of harming Cas. Said he’s the one who gave him the grace he has now, and if he wanted him dead he could have let him die back when you were a demon.”

“Is that true? Crowley gave Cas the grace he has now?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says. “I told Crowley that you and Cas left, that we had a fight and weren’t speaking because of what happened, hoping to get him to open up, and it may have worked. He wants to meet with me. Have a talk.”

“Huh.” Dean hears what Sam is saying, but with his eyes still on Cas, he’s stuck on the idea of Crowley refueling his angel with grace. “I mean, Cas mentioned Crowley that night, and stolen grace, right before he left with Hannah. But I never found out the details.”

“Did you ever ask him?”

“Ask him what?”

“Did you ever ask him for the details?”

“No.” Dean’s response is indignant. “He would’ve told me if he wanted me to know.”

“I don’t think that’s true. Cas isn’t much of a talker, you know that. He’s more tight lipped than you are. It’s the number one cause of every problem between you and him. Communication.”

“Communication,” Dean repeats with a huff. Is Sam really going to lecture him on his communication skills? The man who worked with Crowley and some nameless witch, secretly, behind his and Cas’s backs? Un-fucking-believable.

“Lack of it, actually,” Sam says.

“You’re one to talk.”

“I communicate. I’m always willing to talk it out, Dean. You’re the one who’d always rather... not.”

“Well I guess you’ve got me there, if we we’re talking about _quantity_. But I’m talking about _quality_ , Sam. All of your top-notch communicating and over-communicating doesn’t mean jack shit when it’s lies.”

“I know. You’re right, and I’m sorry. I’ll say it to you as many times as I have to, as many times as you want me to. I’m sorry. I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but you’ve got to believe me, Dean," Sam pleads from the other end of the line.  "I never thought anything bad would happen. You’ve got to forgive me. Please.”

They’ve lied to each other ever since he can remember. They learned it from their father, if he’s giving credit where credit is due. There were always reasons, always justifications, contrived and otherwise, for the lack of honesty between them. It’s become a way of life, of coping, of dealing with each other and their fucked up situation, and truth be told, he’s more guilty of it than Sam is or ever has been. Of the two of them, Sam is the good one. He has no right to judge his brother, and the realization steadies him.

“This isn’t about me.“

“I won’t let Cas die on you, Dean,” Sam says with the solemnity of a vow, one that Dean desperately wants to believe. “I won’t let him die on us.”

“Okay, Sammy.” Dean nods when Cas points to the computer he wants, his eyebrows raised in question. Dean doesn’t even look at the price of it before he signals thumbs up to the salesman and reaches into his pocket for his wallet. “Okay. So what’s our next move?”

“I hate to say it, but I don’t think you should come back to the bunker yet, not until I meet with Crowley. He thinks we’re on the outs, and I’ll get more out of him if we keep it that way. I’ll find out what I can about the spell, see if Crowley knows of an antidote.”

“Makes sense,” Dean agrees. Sam’s focus on the issue at hand is reassuring.

“In the meantime, make sure Cas doesn’t use any of his grace. Not for anything.”

______________________________

 

He didn’t intend to doze off. There was a time not long ago when he could close his eyes for a few minutes, rest them without losing consciousness, but that’s no longer the case.

When Dean’s eyes come into focus, he looks around the room for Cas, then calls his name when he doesn’t see him. Cas had been sitting on the bed, leaning back against the headboard, playing with his new computer, before Dean accidentally fell asleep.

He pulls on his boots, doesn’t bother to tie them before he rushes outside. He misses him at first, but the pounding in his chest subsides when a spot of tan fabric catches his eye and he finds him at the end of the sidewalk in front of the motel strip, sitting cross-legged on the pavement, wearing the trench coat that he hadn’t put on since their last hunt.

“Cas.”

Cas looks up at Dean, away from something he holds gingerly in his lap.

“Hey.” Dean walks slowly toward Cas. “Whatcha got there, buddy?”

Cas moves his hand to reveal a small bluebird lying on its side in his other hand. Dean squats down beside Cas, leans his elbows on his knees.

“It looks like it’s too late.” Dean says it cautiously, watches Cas’s face for his reaction. Cas doesn’t have to say anything for Dean to know what he’s thinking, what he’s considering doing. “It sucks, but you can’t do anything about it. You can’t waste your grace.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“ _Waste_ my grace?” Cas narrows his eyes in anger. “You think that healing this animal is wasting my grace?”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Dean tries to rectify his error. It was a careless mistake, a stupid thing to say to a twelve-year-old man with too much heart, and Dean knew it as soon as the words came out. “It’s just that, we don’t know how much grace you have left, and the spell is still… You could die, Cas. If you heal that bird, you might die.”

“So.” Dean freezes when Cas strokes the bird with two fingers. “My life isn’t more important than hers.”

“It is to me,” Dean says. “You know that, don’t you Cas? How important you are to us. How important you are to me.”

Cas stops petting the bird. “Why?”

Good question. Dean’s not sure how to answer it. “You’re one of us. We’re not Team Free Will without you. And I’d kind of miss you.” Cas isn’t buying it, and he shouldn’t. Now is a good time for Dean to start being truthful with Cas, with everyone he cares about. “I’d more than miss you,” Dean amends, “cause you’re sort of like my right arm. I’ve come to rely on it. It’s part of me, and even though I might be able to live without it, if I had to, nothing would be the same. It’d change me in a way I don't want to be changed.”

Cas seems satisfied with Dean’s answer, but his lips quirk up on one side as he swiftly swipes two fingers across the body of the bird, then holds it up in his open palm, watches intently while it flaps its wings several times before it flies away.

“Dammit, Cas.” Dean falls back against the wall as soon as he sees the bird move, realizes what Cas has done. He drops his head into his hand, covers his eyes until he feels a hand on his knee.

“I had to do it,” Cas says. “But I’m all right, see? I won’t do it again, okay Dean?”

When Dean moves his hand away from his face, Cas is leaning into him, looking up at him with rapt blue eyes and a smile that Dean has no choice but to return.

Cas holds his arms out to his sides. “See? I’m peachy keen.”

Cas is happy, and although Dean would like to believe it’s because of what he just told him, he’s certain it was the resurrection of the bluebird that has brought contentment to Cas’s sullen face.

But maybe, just maybe, it was both things.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean feels useless.

They have hours until Sam’s meeting with Crowley.  In the meantime, he should be doing something constructive - doing _something_ \- but he has no idea what that is until he hears from Sam. He’s been staring at his computer screen for well over an hour now, and although research is Sam’s specialty, Dean is good enough at it to figure out that even the world wide web is devoid of information on how to reverse grace-devouring spells. There’s nothing he can accomplish from this motel room.

He glances over at Cas, who’s lying belly down on the bed, propped up on his elbows, tapping away on his new computer with the enthusiasm of a sloth. He’s bored.

Dean shuts down his own computer, closes it and pushes it aside. “Hey, you wanna do something?”

As disinterested as Cas seems to be in the computer screen in front of him, he's less interested in Dean.  He barely looks up when Dean speaks to him. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe something you haven’t done before.”

“That’s almost everything.” Cas states it plainly, as he would any other fact.

Dean’s never really considered just how many things Cas probably has never done. He wasn’t human for very long, but when he was, those days must have been booked full, what with nuking taquitos, hiding from angels, and babysitting for his boss.

Cas closes his laptop in favor of the television. He switches it on, then tosses the remote aside.

Dean rolls his eyes, tries to remember back to when he was whatever age Cas’s head is now. “Enough TV, Cas. Let’s do something. You interested in sports?”

“You know I like football.  Soccer."

“I mean playing, not watching.”

That gets Cas’s attention. He jumps up onto his knees in the middle of the bed. “Can we do that?”

“Sure we can.” Dean needs to release some tension, and he wouldn’t mind hitting a few balls, preferably with a baseball bat. Anything to help get his mind off of what he’s not doing. “I think there’s a batting cage--”

“Or bowling? Can we try bowling, Dean? I saw a bowling place by the store.”

“Bowling is not a sport.” And it's not one of Dean's favorite things to do.  He has bowled on only a handful of occasions in his life; a few times with Sam when they were much younger, and only one other time that he remembers after that.

“Yes it is,” Cas counters.

“Not a real sport, like baseball.”

“Yes it is.”

“It’s a game.”

“Baseball’s a game.”

Dean doesn’t have a snowball’s chance of winning this argument. “Okay then. If that’s what you want to do, then that’s what we’ll do.”

______________________________

 

Cas doesn’t know how not to angel.

Dean has to stop him from using his grace for the most mundane things; when he can’t find the remote to shut off the television, when he's unable to work the velcro on the rented bowling shoes, when his fingers are sticky from the bowling alley kettle corn he is consuming as if it is some kind of angel ambrosia. Cas experimentally touches the tips of his fingers to one another before he straightens them and holds up his hand.

“Come on!” Dean slaps Cas's hand down. “Use a damn napkin, Cas.”

“I’m sorry,” Cas pouts. “I’m trying, but it’s hard. It’s not natural.”

“The amount of kettle corn you’re eating is what’s not natural,” Dean mutters.

“It’s good.” Cas licks his fingers, one at a time.  "Food tastes good now."

“You have to try harder,” Dean scolds, half-hearted. “You don’t have to mojo every damn thing.” He dips a paper napkin into his cup of water and snags Cas’s hand, cleans his fingers with it.

Cas shifts in his seat, and once Dean releases his hand he dries it with the front of his trench coat.  “Can we bowl now?" he asks.  "I’ve been watching, and I’m ready.”

Cas is a sight, casually throwing the ball down the lane in the much-too-large overcoat.  He’s been wearing it since he dug it out of the back seat of Baby while Dean was resting his eyes, and although Cas hasn't said why he has put it back on, Dean thinks he knows, and he's gone out of his way not to mention it.  Despite the hindrance of unnecessary outerwear, Cas is not bad at bowling, and by the end of the first game he's hooking the ball and beating Dean by a steadily increasingly margin.

“You’ve done this before.” Dean waves a finger at Cas after another near strike. “You can’t be this good just from your on-the-spot sciencing.”

Cas waits by the return for the neon orange ball he had carefully selected before they started. “When I worked at the Gas-n-Sip, Nora asked me once if I wanted to go bowling with her and some of her friends.”

Dean slaps his hand on his leg.  “I knew it!”

“But I didn’t go.”

“Why not?”

“After you left Rexford, she was always asking me about you.  She wanted to know who you were, how we knew each other, did I miss you. It made me feel…” Cas stops, twists his mouth and taps it with his finger before he shakes his head.  "The words are getting harder."

“Yeah,” Dean says.  It's not a good sign, and it worries him, but it won't help Cas to make a big deal of it.  “So you passed on bowling with Nora because you didn't want to talk about the selfish dick who kicked you out of the bunker?"

“No.  It was the only thing I _wanted_ to talk about, but I couldn’t because…” Cas points upward. “Angels.”

“Right,” Dean nods, then watches while Cas finishes off the frame with a spare.

“Well the last time I bowled was…” Dean pauses, rethinks what he was about to say. There’s no good reason to bring up Lisa and Ben, the time he spent living the life Sam wanted for him; the wrong life. It had been a painful confirmation of what he could and could not have, a lesson learned while a shitstorm brewed in Heaven and his brother’s disembodied soul lingered in Hell. The only consolation from that time is that it never even happened as far as Lisa and Ben knew, thanks to Cas.

Cas’s brows arch slightly. His gaze fixes on Dean as if he’ll figure out what Dean was going to say if he just stares at him long enough. It’s a good thing that Cas can’t read his mind without his permission.

“About the grace situation," Dean changes the subject back to the immediate problem, the one that matters now. “Can you tell? Do you know how much you’ve got left?”

Cas dismisses him with a one-shoulder shrug. “Everything’s so different. It’s hard to tell.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” Cas says, then chuckles at his own joke.

“Okay, fine.” It sounds like something Sam would say, but Dean remains patient. “Then can I ask you another one?”

“Technically… ” Cas starts, but Dean warns him off with a look. Cas nods, still amused.

“Did Crowley have anything to do with getting you the grace you have now?”

Cas’s grin dissolves instantly.  Every muscle in his body tenses up. Dean can see it, despite the coat.  By his reaction, Dean doesn’t expect any answer, but Cas surprises him.

“Yes.” Cas narrows his eyes at the memory. “I told him I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t strong enough.”

“How did he do that?” Dean ventures carefully. Cas can clam up at any moment. “Did he get grace from another angel and then what? Force it inside you?”

Cas points to his open mouth.  “Yes.”  His reluctance is palpable, but it’s different than when he was older, driven more by grief than shame. He continues. “Crowley killed her. She was hurting Hannah, but she just didn’t want to go back to Heaven. We shouldn’t have tried to make her go when she didn’t want to. He shouldn’t have given me her grace.”

“It’s not your fault, Cas. You said no.”

Cas sighs, then lowers his head, looks down at his shuffling feet. “I said no, but I wanted it. I shouldn’t have wanted it. It was wrong to want it.”

“Crowley would have killed her either way.” Dean tries to console, but he knows Cas too well to think that anything Dean says will alleviate his guilt. Much like Dean, Cas specializes in self-blame. “And you needed the grace to keep saving the world.”

“That’s not why I wanted it,” Cas whispers, his chin still resting on his chest, his hands wringing together on his lap, and Dean doesn’t question him further because the answer he wants and the answer he gets may not be the same, and what good would that do for anybody?

“So Crowley knows how to hijack grace. That’s just great.”

Cas nods. “And he must’ve kept some of the grace he gave me, because that’s the only way he could make that kind of spell work on me. ”

Wait. What? “What did you say?” Dean asks.

“I said Crowley must have kept some of the grace he gave me. It’s the only way a curse like that could work on an angel. You would have to have some of their grace.”

“Are you sure?”

Cas rolls his eyes, heaves a sigh. “Yes, Dean.”

He has to be right. Whatever the spell is doing to Cas’s psyche, it's had little, if any effect on his knowledge. But if Cas is right, it means that Crowley not only did this intentionally, but he planned it months ago, while Dean was still a demon.

Dean surveys the area and deems it safe enough to leave Cas to bowl while he calls Sam. There’s no answer at first, and it goes to voicemail. Dean paces back and forth as he continues to call until Sam finally picks up, minutes later.  

“So why don’t you call your witch and ask her if that’s true," Dean suggests after he relays Cas's information.  "Ask her if you can make spells that work on angels with some of their grace.”

“My witch?” Sam asks, offended.

“Yeah.  The yarn witch.”

“Dean, she has no idea that Cas is an angel,” Sam says. “This whole thing is way above her pay grade. But I’ll find out tomorrow, when I meet Crowley’s mother.”

“What? When did this happen?”

“Just a few minutes ago. Crowley canceled tonight, is going to have me meet his mother tomorrow. He says she’s the one who can help.”

Great. Now he once again has to be the bearer of bad news to Cas. “So we have to stay away from the bunker another day?”

“Yes, but be careful. I think something's up with Crowley.  I don't trust him.”

“Oh really?” Dean smirks. “And here I thought you were his biggest fan.”

Sam exhales with a groan.  It's an irritating sound that Dean is all too familiar with.  “Two things happened. He asked me about the First Blade, if I knew where it was. Said a child shouldn’t be the sole guardian of a weapon of such biblical proportion.”

“Son of a bitch is still an asshole,” Dean blurts. “And?”

“And he called me Sam.”

______________________________

 

Dean half expected Cas would put his coat back on over the sweat pants when he readies himself for bed, but he doesn’t. Without a word, he lies down on top of the covers.

“I’m sorry we can’t go back to the bunker yet, buddy.” Dean sits on the edge of his mattress, facing Cas. “We have to make sure it’s safe.”

“You shouldn’t be mad at Sam,” Cas says. It seems, at first, like it comes out of nowhere, but it doesn’t. Dean’s resentment has hung off of every explanation, every apology he’s given to Cas. “He’s very smart. What he tried to do with the spell was a good idea.”

“Yeah, well, trusting Crowley was _not_ a good idea. And now he’s got to buddy up to him, figure out exactly what it is that Crowley wants.”

“That’s easy,” Cas says, his nonchalance masking the gravity of this discussion. “He wants you.”

Dean jerks his head up, then gives it a vigorous shake, but it’s more in denial than disagreement. “I think there might be more to it than that.”

“I don’t think so.” Cas yawns, covers his mouth with his hand. “He may be the King of Hell, but he’s still just a demon. They’re not complicated.”

“Huh.” That doesn’t really explain why he went after Cas, though. Not entirely, anyway. Dean’s going to have to discuss it with Sam in the morning. “It’s late. You should try to get some sleep.”

Cas nods, then reaches up with his hand toward the light, palm out.  Dean sees it out of the corner of his eye and jumps from his bed, catches Cas's hand just as the bulb in the bedside lamp dims. He’s too late, and it pisses Dean off. He’s been on alert all day, and if they don’t get some answers soon about the spell, Dean is going to take matters into his own hands. He’s frustrated, and he takes it out on Cas.

“Cas, so help me, God!” Dean yells, his jaw tight with the upcoming threat. “I will hold onto both of your damn hands all night long if that’s what it takes to stop you from using up your mojo.”

Cas looks up at Dean, blinks a few times. “Okay,” he says, then scoots over on the bed, as if making room for Dean.

Dean wasn’t expecting that, but his hesitation is so brief that it barely counts. “Okay then,” he says, and climbs onto the bed while reaching back behind him to turn the offending lamp off completely. He lies on his side, mirroring Cas’s position.  He grasps both of Cas’s hands roughly, to make a point, but then gently folds them together and cradles them between his own.

“Goodnight, Dean.”

It’s dark, but light from the street lamp outside peeks through the slats of the window blinds. It’s enough to see Cas close his eyes, settling into sleep. The skin of his face smoothes, flushes pink across his prominent cheekbones. Dean’s body relaxes into the comfort of the bedding beneath them, of having Cas next to him. He draws their bound hands closer to him.

“G’night, Cas.”


	9. Chapter 9

Cas is like a glass of warm milk, or a pint of whiskey, or Ambien.  Dean sleeps dreamless and still throughout the night and he wakes rested, Cas’s hands still loosely encased in his. With the angel beside him, he logged one of the best undrugged nights of sleep that he can recall, certainly better than he should be sleeping, considering the circumstances.  Even though his body sorely needed it, he scolds himself for falling asleep too easily and staying asleep too long.  Those are luxuries he is not entitled to.  He extricates his hands from Cas’s carefully, so as not to wake him.  He reaches over with his finger, rubs it along Cas’s stubbly jaw, his growing beard.  He shouldn’t be surprised, considering the other human things Cas’s body has been up to, that his facial hair would also be affected, but he is.

He takes his time in the shower because this morning his mind, too, is refreshed with clarity and determination.  He’s not going to sit back and wait while Cas’s grace burns away.  If Dean Winchester is what Crowley wants, then Dean Winchester is what Crowley is going to get.  The King of Hell will learn that he should be more careful about what he wishes for.

Dean brushes his teeth and skips the shave.  Now that he knows what he has to do, he wants to do it.  He’s ready to call Sam, take Cas back to bunker, and get on with it. But when he comes out of the bathroom, his plans are placed on hold.

“Cas, buddy, is it…”

Cas sits cross-legged on the bed.  A thin layer of sweat covers his face and his arms are coiled around his midsection. “I’m sorry,” he says as he rocks himself to and fro. “It’s happening again, and I can’t--”

Cas coughs and shakes as his body expels the contents of his stomach onto the rumpled coverlet.  It’s kettle corn, mostly, and Dean gets a towel from the bathroom before he goes to him.  He dabs at Cas’s face with it, grabs Cas’s arm when he tries to get up.

“Can you make it to the bathroom?” Dean asks.

Cas nods once, then shakes his head and leans forward as he vomits again.

“It’s all right.”  Dean holds onto Cas’s shoulder with one hand, rubs circles on his back with the other.  “Just get it all out right here.  This bedding was ugly as shit anyway."

Cas chuckles a little at that, then involuntarily jerks forward and brings up the last of it.  He wipes his mouth on his sleeve.  Dean pats Cas’s back and hands him the towel, but Cas is in a daze of sorts and doesn’t even laugh when Dean tells him the blanket looks better now and if it wasn’t for the smell he would consider bringing it back to the bunker and keeping it.

Dean palms Cas’s forehead and feels the fever.  

“Okay, buddy.  Let’s get you cleaned up and back to bed.  Arms up,” Dean orders, and Cas complies, attempts to raise his arms while Dean yanks his shirt up over his head and off.  He helps Cas off of the bed, guides him into the bathroom, sits him on the closed toilet seat.

“I think a bath instead of shower, so you can sit.  Sound good?”  Dean plugs the tub and holds one hand under the water while he twists the faucets one at a time.  Cas is hot, so he keeps the water cool.  Once he is satisfied with the temperature, he turns around.

“I’m gonna go clean up before it soaks in.” Dean waves a hand at Cas.  “You go ahead.  I’ll be right back.”

Dean closes the bathroom door only halfway when he leaves the room.  He tosses the vomit stained shirt Cas was wearing into the middle of the bed, then gathers the soiled covers and sheets and takes them directly outside to the motel’s dumpster.  

When he returns and checks on Cas, he finds him standing naked, holding onto the porcelain sink, staring down at the half-full tub.

“You need something?”  Dean asks.  

“I’ve never had a bath.” Cas’s voice is as weak as his body seems to be right now.  His arms are doing all of the work in keeping him upright, and they shake from the effort.

“You need some help?” Dean asks.  When Cas nods, Dean slides his arm across Cas’s back and around his waist for support while Cas manages to step into the tub and lower himself into the water.  It must feel good because Cas says “ahh” as he dips into the water, then closes his eyes and leans back as far as he can, rests his head against the chipped white subway tile on the surrounding wall.

Dean is torn on what he should do next.  His legs are ready to move toward the door but his mind halts them before the first step is ever taken, and instead he sinks to his knees onto the grimy floor, his decision made.  He turns off the water, reaches for a clean washcloth from the top of the toilet tank, squeezes some liquid soap onto it.  He rubs the soapy cloth gently over Cas’s face and ears, then down his neck and along his body, cleansing each limb carefully.  It’s strange to see dirt under Cas’s fingernails, and it bothers him, the banality of it, so he scrubs them clean, one at a time, while Cas remains silent and unmoving in the tepid water.

When he's finished with Cas's body, he uses the cup from the sink to tackle Cas's hair.  Cas opens his eyes when Dean places his hand on Cas’s shoulder and urges him forward. There's no resistance while Dean turns on the faucet, uses clean water on Cas's hair.  He massages shampoo into Cas’s hair for longer than necessary because he seems to enjoy it, an almost smile pulling on his fever-pink lips.

He guides Cas up and out of the tub when they are done, winds one towel around his friend's waist, rubs the excess water from his hair with another. Cas follows him out of the bathroom, sits where Dean points on the edge of Dean’s bed, and waits.  Dean digs a pair of sweatpants out of his duffel bag, hunkers down in front of his friend so he can use Dean’s shoulders to steady himself as he slips his legs into the pants, one at a time.

After he gives Cas aspirin and water, Dean pushes the covers to the side, and Cas crawls under them willingly.  As Dean pulls them up to tuck him in, Cas wraps his hand around Dean’s right forearm, raises his brows in question.  

“What?  What is it?”  Dean asks.  He looks down at where Cas’s fingers are stroking his skin along the Mark of Cain..

He’d forgotten it was there.

“Don’t worry about me.  I’m good, Cas.” He brushes Cas’s damp hair away from his face, surprised himself by the truth of his own statement. “I’m better than good.”

______________________________

 

 ****While Cas sleeps, Dean contacts Sam, tries to convince him to not go meet Crowley’s witch mother.  Dean has a new plan, a better plan.  He’ll trade himself for an antidote or counter spell for Cas, and if Crowley doesn’t want to make that deal, Dean’s got another one that he'll figure out when he needs to.

“If you’re going to kill him, I should be with you.  We should do it together.”

“Someone has to stay with Cas,” Dean says.  “And I’m not going to kill him.”

“What?”

“I can’t.  I want to, but I can’t kill him.”

“Why not?”  His brother is baffled, and rightfully so.  “Dean, we have to.  We always make a deal, we always let him get away, and then we always end up here, with everything worse.”

“I know.  I agree, we should.  It’s time.”  It _is_ time.  By all counts, Crowley should die for what he has done to Cas.  “But the thing is, before I killed Cain, he said something.  He said I was living his life in reverse.”

“What does that mean?”

“He told me that I’d kill Crowley, and then I’d kill Cas, and finally you.  He said it was my destiny.”

“Dean, that’s ridiculous.  It's crap.  He was just trying to get into your head.  You’d never hurt me or Cas.  I know that.  You’ve got to know that too.”

"Sam.  I chased you with a hammer in the bunker.  If Cas hadn't shown up--"

"You were a demon.  That wasn't you.  It doesn't count because that wasn't you."

He’d like to believe that, and he can’t envision a scenario in which he would choose to harm either of them.  The Mark has had little effect on him since Cas moved in and the three of them have been together, but what happened in Pontiac sits in the forefront of his memory like a constant visual warning:  The Mark of Cain is still an unknown.

"I can’t risk it.  And if it means Crowley gets to live for a while to keep from setting that in motion, then that’s what it means.”

“All right,” Sam concedes.  “We’ll do it your way.”

______________________________

 

Cas squirms around on his seat across from Dean in the booth.  Even though he slept all day, Cas is still tired, but also restless and hungry.  Dean isn’t sure if that’s a good or bad sign.

“So, can you still hear my prayers?”  Dean asks.

“Dunno.”  Cas lays his menu out on the table in front of him and squints at it, then rubs his eyes.  Dean wonders if Cas can even read it anymore.

“Well let’s test it out.”  Dean claps his hands together.  “I pray to Castiel, and beg him to never ever eat kettle corn again.  Amen.  Did you hear that?”

“Yes.”  Cas rolls his eyes, a lopsided grin on his face.  “You’re right here, Dean.  Of course I heard it.”

“Oh, right.”  Dean smiles back.  He’d just wanted to lighten things up before he told Cas what was going on, and it worked.  “We’ll try it out again after I take you back to the bunker.”

“We’re going back to the bunker?”  

“ _You_ are.  After we eat dinner, I’m taking you home.” Dean points at Cas, then reaches for one of the menus tucked between the salt and pepper shakers. He opens it and looks it over as he speaks.  “And then I’m going to visit Crowley.”

Cas shakes his head adamantly, eyes wide.  “No, Dean.”

“Don’t worry about it, buddy.  We’re just going to have a talk.”  

“Why?”

“Because he says he can help me help you.  Get you back up to speed.”

“Then talk to him on the phone.”

“I already did, and we agreed to meet in person.”  

Cas crosses his arms and turns away from Dean.

“Cas, look at me," Dean orders. "I’ll be fine.  I’m not going to hurt him and he’s not going to hurt me.”

Unwillingly, Cas complies and faces Dean, frowns.  “Crowley lies.”

“I know,”  Dean assures.

"He's bad."

“I’m aware.  I’ll be careful.”

Cas sucks in a deep breath.  “Please don’t go.”

“I’m sorry.  I have to.”

“No you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“No, you--”

“Listen to me, Cas.” Dean cuts him off with a stern voice.  “I’m not giving up my right arm without a fight.  I need my right arm.”  Dean pauses.  “I want it.”

“You _want_ it?” Cas asks.  It’s nearly a whisper, brimming with disbelief but with an undertone of faith, of trust in Dean that always seems to be there.

“Don’t really think there’s a way I can live without it.”

Cas cants his head, watches Dean closely.   “How long will you be gone?”

“I don’t know yet.  But while I’m gone, you and Sam are going to keep on researching.  And you can’t use your grace for anything, you hear me?”

“I’ll try.  But I want to all the time.  I want to use it right now to make you not go.”

Dean stretches his arm across the table and takes Cas’s hand.  “Does this help you not to use it?”

“Yes. But you’ll be gone.”

“I have an idea.”  Dean unbuckles his watch and straps it around Cas’s wrist.  “If you feel like you want to use your grace while I’m gone, look at this.  Concentrate on the second hand and count to ten.”

“Okay.”  Cas examines the watch, touches the face of it.  “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me.  You’re giving it back to me when I get back, you hear me?”

Cas nods, then slides out of the booth.  “I have to go to the bathroom.  Will you order pancakes for me?”

“For dinner?”

Cas shrugs.  

“Sure, Cas, whatever you want.  Pancakes for dinner.”

Cas shoves his hands in his pants pockets, takes two steps before he spins around on his heel.  “Dean?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“I love you too.”

Dean drops his head and bites his lip, swallows the knot in his throat while Cas turns back around and continues on to the restroom.  When this is over, and Cas has his grace back, things are going to have to change because there's no denying that things have changed.

When the waitress tells Dean that they don’t serve breakfast after noon, Dean pulls out the charm. He flashes his teeth and flirts his way to a triple stack for Cas, with bacon and fruit, orders a double burger for himself.

He fiddles with his phone, then calls Sam while he waits, but Sam doesn’t pick up.  He can’t imagine why, since Sam was supposed to be waiting for them at the bunker.  But Dean doesn’t have time to worry about it because the waitress is bringing their food to the table and Cas hasn’t come back from the restroom yet.

He glances at his wrist, out of habit, but Cas has his watch, so he checks his phone.  Cas has been gone for at least fifteen minutes.  

“The guy that was with me, have you seen him?”  Dean asks the waitress as she sets their plates down onto the table.

“Dark hair, blue eyes, jeans and a tan coat?”  she asks.

“Yes, that's him,” Dean nods.  “You see him?”  Dean cranes his head over her shoulder, in the direction he last saw Cas.

“Not since he went to the washroom.”  She pulls two sets of napkin wrapped utensils from her apron and places them on the table.  “Was he the one who needed the pancakes so badly?”

“Yes.”  

“You’re a good friend,” she says.  “I’m sure he’s fine.”

Dean tucks his phone in his pocket and pushes his way out of the booth.  He hurries to the back of the diner and down the unlit hallway to the single men’s bathroom.  It’s empty, and he checks the one next to it designated “ladies” as well, just in case, but Cas is nowhere in sight.  

He stands frozen for a moment in front of the two empty bathrooms, clutches his hair in one hand until he feels a cool breeze on his right side.  He turns toward it, sees an exit door at the end of the dark corridor.  It's partially open, unable to close properly due to something on the ground wedged between the door and its frame.   Dean steps toward it cautiously, until he is able to see what it is.  He runs to the door and pushes it open while sweeping down with one hand and scooping up Castiel’s trench coat.

There is nothing outside.  Only trash cans and pavement and dirt.  

“Cas!”  He calls out the name as he runs down the alley, coat in hand.  He stops where it meets the empty road.  "Castiel!" he yells again, then turns around and runs back up the alley to the street on the other side.  Winded, he fishes his phone from his pocket and hastily dials Cas.  It's not Cas who answers.

“Hello, Darling,”  Crowley crows from Cas’s phone.  “As I’m sure you’ve already surmised, there’s been a slight change of plans.”


	10. Chapter 10

Cas loves him.

No, that’s not right. Cas loves him, _too._

They’re just words. Stupid, fucking words, and he doesn’t have time to think about them. He doesn’t have time to figure out why he wants to close his eyes and exist in those words, why every bone in his body wants to soak them in, why he wants so much to keep those words when they fly in the face of everything that he knows, everything that he has always believed about who he is and what he will inevitably become.

He drives alone, in silence, squeezes his forehead between his thumb and fingers and kneads roughly. He needs time, but he doesn’t have it. Cas is dying, and Sam’s not answering his phone. He wonders briefly if Crowley has Sam too, if the King of Hell has managed to round up everything left in this world that Dean gives a shit about, but Crowley said nothing about Sam, and Dean doubts he would have been able to keep that kind of leverage to himself.

He hadn’t planned on it, but Dean decides to stop at the bunker before going to meet with Crowley, since it’s not out of the way. He calls Sam’s name as he scurries down the stairs and through the war room to the library. He checks the bedrooms, the kitchen, the storage rooms, even the dungeon, just in case, but doesn’t find him. The truck Sam likes to use is still there, but the hatchback is gone. There’s no tracker on the hatchback, and either Sam figured that out and doesn’t want Dean to know where he is, or Dean is the unluckiest man around. Maybe it’s both.

He can’t spend any more time looking for clues because he has less than an hour to get to the bar that Crowley directed him to. He grabs a few things before he leaves the bunker, unsure of when, or if, he’ll ever be back.

______________________________

 

He’s not back on the road for long when Sam finally calls, and even though Dean’s annoyed, he’s too relieved that Sam is safe to give him a hard time.

“I just got your message.” He sounds harried, distressed, and Dean assumes it’s because of the message he had left him informing him that Sam’s partner in crime has kidnapped Cas. “What’s going on?”

“He took him,” Dean barks into the phone. “Crowley took Cas and the spell is getting worse, making him sicker, and he barely has any grace left. He must be scared to death.”

“Where are you?”

“I just left the bunker.” Dean glances at the time on his phone. “I’m supposed to meet Crowley at a bar outside of Stockton in an hour.”

“You just left the _bunker_ ,” Sam says, then hesitates, as if grappling with what to say next.

“That’s what I said, Sam.”

“Dean, please,” Sam begs. “I get it, you’re still mad. This whole thing is _my fault_ , I know that, and if something happens to Cas, I’ll never be able to-- But don’t shut me out. I want to help. I _have_ to help.”

“Then help me. Nobody’s stopping you. And by the way, where the hell are _you?_ ”

“I’m on my way to you.”

Dean’s confused. He hasn’t told Sam the exact location of the meeting. “You mean to the bunker? Or to Stockton?”

“Neither,” Sam says firmly. “I’m on my way to Hastings.”

Hastings? What the hell is Sam doing? He needs his help with Crowley, and he’s heading in the opposite direction. Dean slides his hand into his hair, fists a handful of it. Sam is making less and less sense. “What the fuck? Why are you going to Nebraska?”

“Dean, just stop it!” Sam’s about one decibel short of yelling, and the frustration is contagious. “I know where you are. Listen to me.  When you were a demon, I couldn’t find you. I didn’t know where you were, and all I wanted was to find you so I could… Anyway, after we… got you back, I needed to make sure that I didn’t lose you again. I mean, you still had the Mark, and I couldn’t take any chances that--”

Dean has no time for patience.  “Sam! Any way you can long-story-short this?”

“I put something in your watch. A location device. So I could find you, in case something happened again.”

Dean gasps. “Are you kidding me?”

“It was only meant for emergencies,” Sam apologizes. “And I never used it, I swear Dean. Not until you took Cas, and you weren’t answering your phone.”

“So you’ve known where Cas and I have been this whole time?”

“Yes.”

“And you know exactly where my watch is right this minute?”

“Well, within several feet, yes. I’m sorry, but yes, I know you’re at some nursing home in Hastings that’s been shut down for almost five years. Please, don’t waste time being mad. You can yell and scream at me about it later, but right now, let me help you find Cas.”

When this is over, Sam’s probably going to want to have a talk about personal space and boundaries and crap, but right now, Dean would reach through the phone and kiss his privacy-invading brother if he could.

“Sam, you crafty son of a bitch. You just found him.”

______________________________

 

Sam’s not here. Even though Dean pushed Baby close to her top speeds to make up for the time he lost going the other direction, Sam was already on his way here and he should have made it to this abandoned facility well before Dean.  He should be meeting Crowley at that bar right about now, and it won’t be long before Crowley realizes that Dean's a no-show and something is up. He can’t really wait for Sam.  He has to get in there and find Cas, make sure he’s okay and get him out of there. He still plans to deal with Crowley, negotiate for a cure for Cas like they discussed on the phone, but the demon has proven himself untrustworthy, especially where the Angel is concerned, and Dean’s not taking any chances.

There are only two demon do-boys Dean has to take down to get inside the building, one more at the end of a long hall with numbered doors on both sides. He’d come after Dean when he heard him, and Dean wasn’t able to see which door he had been stationed in front of. Dean moves swiftly down the hall, opening each door and checking inside. They all look the same: a covered bed, a wooden dresser, a rocking chair. He has no idea how many more demons are milling around inside the old facility, so he hastens his pace.

He almost doesn’t see Cas in the room marked twenty-five. He’s about to shut the door and move on to the next one when he catches with the corner of his eye a slight movement from the back of the room. A familiar sneaker pokes out from behind the dresser then jerks back, and Dean lets out a relieved sigh when he sees it. He enters the room cautiously and closes the door behind him.

“Cas?” He calls his name softly, so he doesn’t frighten him further.

As Dean steps slowly toward his friend, he sees that he is huddled between the dresser and the wall. His legs are bent at the knees and pulled into his chest, his entire body loosely covered by a gray blanket that Dean recognizes from the other rooms as the bed’s coverlet.

Cas raises his blanketed head and tilts his chin up. “Dean?”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s me.” Dean squats down in front of him and lifts the cover enough to confirm that it is him.

“I was hiding,” Cas explains in a low voice. “I couldn’t fit under the bed.”

“That was good thinking.” Dean pulls the blanket up and off of Cas. The muscles in his jaw tense, his face burns hot with anger when he sees Cas’s split lip and bruised face. He slams his fist into the wall. It’s all he can do to not call Crowley and tell him to get his ass over there so he can stab him through the fucking heart.

Cas flinches at the sudden impact, and Dean regrets it immediately. He unclenches his teeth and fist, gently touches Cas’s swollen cheek while Cas stares at him, wide eyes flitting between Dean’s now calm face and the partially exposed Mark on Dean’s arm. Dean expects him to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Did Crowley do this?” Dean asks.

Cas nods. “I didn’t heal it, though, see? I didn’t use my grace like you told me not to. I just watched the second hand on your watch and counted to ten over and over and over.”

“Good job, Cas.” Dean rubs his thumb over Cas’s wounded lips. “Why did he…”

“He hates me. Plus I wouldn’t tell him where the First Blade is and that made him even more angry. He said that you were going to be staying with him from now on and you wanted me to tell him, but I still didn’t tell him because I’m not supposed to. I’m not supposed to tell anyone where it is.”

“You’re absolutely right.”

“And Crowley’s a liar. All he does is lie, because you told me you were going to _talk_ to him, not _stay_ with him.” Cas’s tongue darts out and licks the cut on his upper lip. “Right Dean?”

Dean’s a liar too. He couldn’t tell Cas the truth, that he was going to stay with Crowley if that’s what it took to get a cure for Cas. He’s sure Cas will understand that once he’s back up to speed. He glances at the door, hoping that Sam will miraculously show up and take Cas away so Dean can stay and deal with Crowley. He tries to call Sam one more time, shoves his phone back into his pocket when it goes straight to voicemail.

“Yeah, let’s get you out of here. You can take the Impala and drive yourself back to the bunker. You can still drive, can’t you?”

Cas pushes his brows together. “No. I can’t. I’m scared. You have to come with me.”

“I know. I’m scared too. But I need your help.” Dean wraps one hand around the back of Cas’s neck, squeezes his shoulder with the other. “Do you think you can do this? Take Baby back to the bunker?”

Cas drops his head, begins to pull on the hem of his shirt with his fidgeting hands. Dean slides the hand on Cas’s neck to beneath his dimpled, bristly chin and guides it up so he can look Cas in the eyes.

“I need you to do this buddy. For me.”

Cas shakes his head. “But you’re not doing this for _you_. You’re doing it for _me_.”

Dean takes a long, deep breath. “Yeah, well, same thing.”

Cas’s lips begin to quiver. He shoves his face into Dean’s chest and Dean wraps his arms around him, tries to comfort him. It’s odd to see an angel with Cas’s history, a being who has been fighting the war against evil for eons, who has been to heaven and hell and everywhere in between, so overwhelmed. But here he is, trembling in Dean’s arms, and Dean would be willing to bet that the thing that has his friend so shaken is something other than the danger surrounding them.

“Crowley wants you to be a monster.” Cas whispers into his chest, then leans back and takes hold of Dean’s right forearm. He slips his hand under the rolled up shirt sleeve and places it over The Mark. “But you’re not a monster. I got to see your soul, and it’s good, Dean. You’re good. No matter what, you should always remember that you’re _good._ ”

Dean swallows hard, combs his fingers through the messy tufts of Cas’s thick, dark hair. “Can I tell you something if you promise not to tell another soul?”

Cas looks up, eyes clear and wide with recognition of his own words, ones he once said to Dean a long time ago. Those words, and the ones that followed, had forever changed the way Dean thought about the angel who'd saved him, about the nature of their relationship.

“Okay,” Cas says, and Dean bows his head, rests his forehead against Castiel's.

“Sometimes I really need to hear that.”

Cas squeezes Dean’s arm, softly breathes out “me too.”

Dean doesn’t move. He lingers for several seconds longer than he probably should because he doesn’t want to leave Cas, doesn’t want this unexpected moment of calm to end.

But it has to. They have no choice, and when Cas starts coughing it reminds Dean that they are also running out of time.

“You okay?” Dean asks, and Cas nods, offers a half-smile as proof. Dean leads Cas out of the room, grabs his hand and yanks him down the hall. They step over the dead demon and make their way to the rear exit, where Dean has left the Impala.

Dean fishes the keys and his phone out of his pocket, gives them both to Cas. “You drive away from here as fast as you can. Then call Sam. Keep calling him until you get him. And don’t take the watch off, you hear?”

Cas nods once, and Dean pushes the door open, then stops suddenly.

“Leaving so soon?” Crowley grins smugly from his perch on the hood of the Impala.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean reaches inside his jacket for the demon knife as he bounds toward the demon, but he doesn’t get very far. He halts when he sees the two who have Cas, the point of an angel blade pressed against his throat.

“Now, now, Squirrel. You’re the one who called this meeting, as I recall.”

“Let Cas go. This is between me and you. He has nothing to do with this.”

“Oh, Castiel has everything to do with this,” Crowley purrs. “But if it’s more palatable for you, he’s nothing more than insurance.” Crowley hops off of the car, smoothes his suit jacket with both hands. “Is now a good time to discuss terms?”

______________________________

 

“Where’s Cas?”

“No worries. Your man-child is being well tended to.”

Dean's hand closes into a tight fist, his short nails digging into the meat of his palm.  “You did this to him. If anything happens to him, Crowley, there won’t be anywhere in Hell or on Earth that you can hide from me.”

“Please. As much as I've always enjoyed your intrepid Winchester posturing, time is ticking for the cursed angel. But, as I said, no worries. I have exactly what you’re looking for. The question is, how much are you willing to give up for it?”

“How about I let you live.”

“You simply can't help yourself, can you,"  Crowley chuckles.  "We both know how very vacant that threat is.  Especially when I’m the only one who can - or will - help you.”

It’s true, and Dean hates it. Now there are two reasons why he won’t kill the demon, and he’s in no position to make demands. “You can break the spell? Stop whatever it is that’s been eating his grace?”

“I can do even better than that.”

“What do you mean?”

Crowley snaps his fingers, and the demon behind him comes forward. He lays a black leather briefcase on the nearest counter, opens it, and steps aside.

Dean has to use a hand to shield his eyes from the bright blue light emanating from the sealed bottles stacked inside the briefcase. Dozens of them, at least, and although he has no affinity for angels in general, it turns his stomach to see the stockpile of grace, knowing that each one was once a living being, one of Cas’s brothers or sisters.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Crowley picks one and holds it up. “I’ve always been fascinated by it myself.  It's been a hobby of mine for ages. But it’s only recently, since the feathery pests have become so - accessible - that my collection has grown tenfold.”

Dean shakes his head with disgust. “And how is that going to help Cas?”

“I’m so glad you asked. Any one of these little treasures will fix him right up. Mostly.”

“Mostly?”

“Replenishing with the grace will stop the spell and keep him from dying. At least for a while, and then, well, there's more where that came from.  But the damage that has been done to him cannot be undone.”

“Are you saying the spell can never be reversed?”

“Mummy’s magic is remarkable, a bit scary, really, but I never say never, old friend. I’m only explaining that this method of recharging your favorite wind-up toy will save him, but not cure him.”

It doesn’t matter. Cas has made his position on stolen grace clear. “He won’t go for it. He won’t let you force another angel’s grace on him again, and he sure as hell won’t take it voluntarily.”

“I know. I’m a cordial host. I already offered it to the ungrateful little bugger as soon as he arrived here. But perhaps if it came from you, someone he trusts and holds dear, he might set that misplaced morality of his aside and accept it.” Crowley shrugs. “If not, there are ways to make it happen, regardless. It certainly didn’t take all that much arm twisting last time.”

He considers it, and Dean’s ashamed of that. There’s nothing he can do about the angels whose grace is in those bottles, and it would give them more time to find whatever it is they need to heal Cas. But he can’t do it. Not to Cas. As much as he wants to, for his own, selfish reasons, he won't let desperation cloud his judgment once again and do the same thing to Cas that he did to Sam when Sam was dying.

“Not gonna happen,” Dean says. “So unless you’ve got an ace up your sleeve, I’ll just take Cas and--”

“The ‘ace’ is Castiel’s grace.”

“What?”

“ _His_ grace.  The stuff that was taken from him by the pernicious scribe.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If your angel were to, perchance, be reunited with _his_ grace, the curse would be broken and he would be, in every way, restored.”

Dean looks around the room while he speaks, tries to gauge whether or not this is all part of one big con.  “I’m guessing you don’t have that lying around here anywhere, so--”

“I can get it.”

Dean's head pops up.  “How?”

“So _now_ I finally have your full attention. I know where it is, and I can get it.”

“What do you want?”

Crowley looks behind him at his two demon henchmen, sends them both out of the room with a nod of his head before he continues.  

“I want you to rule over Hell with me.”

“How about you take the First Blade? I know where it is, and we can get it, make a trade,” Dean bluffs. “But Cas’ll need his grace back first.”

“I don’t want the First Blade.”

“You don’t want the First Blade,” Dean mimics. He’d like to believe that Crowley is lying. He’d prefer to think that what he has done to Cas is about a weapon, rather than some perverted penchant the demon has for Dean’s company. But his gut tells him that Cas was right. He hadn’t considered it until Cas stated it so plainly, but once he did, Dean knew. Demons really aren’t complicated.

“No. Never have, really," Crowley says.  "I want an ally, an associate, if you will. To assist me with the day-to-day business of the Underworld.”

“You want me to become a demon again.”

“Oh, bloody hell, no! I prefer you a bit less peevish.”

Dean shakes his head, crosses his arms.  “If I’m not a demon, and you don’t want the First Blade, then what the hell do you need me for? What could I possibly do for you?" He already knows the answer.  Crowley's never tried to hide his enjoyment of their demon days karaoke tour.

“Companionship, of course. Hell can be boring as, well, Hell, and ruling over it is tedious work. Not to mention that competent help is all but non-existent these days. You and I together though, we knew how to have fun, did we not? Those were good times, even if you couldn’t manage to keep your John Thomas in your pants.”

“For how long?” Dean demands.

Crowley tsks.  “Such a negative nelly already. We haven’t even begun our new adventure and you’re--”

“How long, Crowley?”

“Well that depends.” Crowley returns the bottled grace in his hand to it’s place in the briefcase and closes it with an exaggerated snap. “How long do you want the angel to keep his grace?”

______________________________

 

Dean types out a message to Sam while he waits for the King of Hell, tells him that Crowley claims to know where Metatron hid Cas’s grace and that he’s worked out a deal with the demon that’ll allow him to take Cas to recover it. He still hasn’t heard anything from his brother since their conversation two hours ago, and he’s concerned. As soon as Cas has his grace back, they’ll deal with whatever it is Sam’s gotten himself into that has rendered him incommunicado. Or at least Cas will.

He taps the send button over and over, but there’s no service.

“Dean, what are you doing?”

“Hey buddy, I’m trying to let Sam know--” Dean looks up from his phone and stops when he realizes Cas is standing, unguarded, by the lobby door. Something’s different, off. He can tell right away. “How’d you get out here?”

“Crowley let me out.”

Dean narrows his eyes, scrutinizes the man in front of him. It looks like Cas, and it sounds like Cas, but somehow, it doesn’t _seem_ like Cas. Even when Cas was changing, when the spell made him emotionally de-mature and caused him to express himself in ways that Dean had never imagined possible, he never once doubted that Cas was Cas.

“Why?” Dean asks.

“He said we’re going on an outing. Just the two of us. He healed my face, too, and apologized for hurting me.”

“He did, did he?”

“Yes.” Cas smiles at him, but it’s false, hollow. “Perhaps he’s not all bad after all.”

“Oh, he is,” Dean says. “As bad as they come, if you want my opinion.  And I do know him better than most.”

“Yes. You’re right.” Cas frowns.  "So very bad."

Dean’s one hundred percent sure now what he’s dealing with, but he wants to lock it in. He turns his back to the man and takes a few steps away from him as he speaks.

“So I thought I’d pick up some kettle corn for the drive. That sound good to you Cas?  How do you feel about kettle corn?”

“I don't care,” Cas’s voice responds. “Angels don't eat.  You know that.”

Dean grits his teeth, clenches his fists as he spins around. “Crowley, you get the fuck out of him. Now!”

Cas sighs, throws up his arms in defeat. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. He’s only my travel suit.”

Dean lunges toward him, but stops short when the demon raises Cas’s hand in warning. “You don’t want to damage the merchandise.”

Dean growls. “Let him go!”

Crowley shakes Cas’s head. “Come, now. You didn’t think I was going to just hand over the coordinates and let you two go on your merry way without me, did you? After all, you and I have a longstanding and rather predictable relationship based on a solid foundation of mistrust, haven’t we?" 

“Then come with us,” Dean says. “The three of us can go together, but first, you get the hell out of him.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys,” Crowley quips. He makes a face when Dean doesn’t react. “I don’t think so,” he says. “It _will_ be the three of us, only the angel and I will be traveling together in one fairly tall, dark, and delicious package. What can I say? I like to travel light. Simplicity is always the best choice, don’t you agree?”

Dean glares at Crowley while his mind works feverishly to find a way, any way, to undo this.

“No, I suppose you don’t,” Crowley says. “There isn’t much grace in here, although I do like the feel of it, I must admit.”

“Get out of him now, or we don’t have a deal.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Crowley twists his head toward a framed wall mirror, combs Cas’s hand through his hair several times before he turns back to Dean. “Fact is, your handsome little poppet doesn’t have much longer. A day, maybe two. But the way he’s using the remaining threads of grace inside this body to keep me away from whatever angelic secrets lie behind these uncannily blue eyes, I’d say it’s sooner rather than later. I’m keeping him alive.”

“Are you telling me he won’t die while you’re in there?”

“While I’m in control of his physical functions, in theory, yes. Not from loss of grace, that is.”

Dean closes his eyes, chews on his lip while he tries to think.

“ _I_ should be the one pouting, really.  My own vessel was hand selected based on certain... attributes… and I’ve grown quite fond of it. I haven’t had a chance to take a peek yet, but I’m afraid with this one, as pretty as it is, I may have gotten the short end of the stick, as they say. I don’t suppose you could shed any light on that subject for me, Squirrel?”

Dean winces for a split second before his poker face takes hold, but it’s too late. Crowley laughs with Castiel’s deep, resonant voice.

“Oh my, my. This is going to be a _very_ interesting trip.”


	11. Chapter 11

“No entourage.” Dean throws out yet another pointless demand. “We shove your vessel in the back seat, and demon douches one and two over there take a walk.”

Crowley won’t tell him where they’re going. He’s only revealed that it will take a while to get there, then followed with an offhand remark about all the time he and Dean spent traveling together not long ago. The mention mortifies Dean more than anything else, and he acknowledges that there’s something pretty screwed up about that. Still, he selfishly hopes not only that Crowley can’t get into Cas's head, but vice versa as well. The last thing he wants Cas exposed to is whatever perverted spin Crowley’s twisted mind has put on Dean’s demon days.

“My vessel?” Crowley lifts one of Cas’s eyebrows and smiles, but not in a way that Dean has ever seen before. “No. That will have to stay here.”

“You’re gonna need it. When we get hold of Cas’s grace, you’ll need another suit to climb into. Unless you plan on going straight to Hell, which is perfectly fine with me.”

Crowley crooks his head and laughs, and Dean’s stomach knots up. It’s Cas’s face, but not his mannerisms; his voice, but not his timbre, and every move Crowley makes, every word he spills out of Cas’s mouth, sickens Dean.

“What kind of fool do you take me for, Squirrel?” Crowley asks rhetorically. “I will forever admire your tenacity, but allow me to make a few things clear for you. Once we’ve recovered your angel’s grace, we’ll bring it back here. Then, under securely controlled circumstances, we will make the exchange. But if it makes you more comfortable, and by all means I want you to be comfortable, my _entourage_ will wait here with my vessel until we return.”

Dean hmphs and rolls his eyes in an effort to conceal his surprise at winning the one concession. Not that he trusts it. He still senses that there’s some motivation behind all of this that he just hasn’t been able to suss out yet. There’s no possible way this is all about Dean. “There’s not a comfortable thing about this,” he barks back.

“I beg to differ. Unsightly as it is, this teeny bopper attire is rather cozy. Although there’s certainly no reason to be untidy.” He tucks the stretched out hem of Castiel’s t-shirt into the waistband of his jeans. “Now someone fetch me that stodgy trenchcoat Squirrel here keeps rolled up on the passenger seat of his Impala.” He turns, one at a time, toward each of the two demons flanking him. “Don’t make me ask twice.”

The demons hurriedly move in tandem toward the back door, but Dean jumps out in front of them with both hands up, blocking their way. “Not gonna happen.”

He _does_ have Cas’s coat. He made sure he brought it along because it seems to, in some way, soothe his suffering friend, but he’ll be damned if Crowley gets anywhere near it.

“Go ahead, make my day.” Dean growls when Crowley’s hench-demons reach for their weapons. Crowley gestures with Cas’s head the order for them to stand down, and they do.

“Excuse us, gentlemen. Dirty Harry here is a tad testy. He’s having a difficult day, I’m afraid.”

Testy doesn’t scratch the surface. Dean huffs as he pulls his keys from his pocket and heads toward the back door where Baby is waiting, confident that Crowley will follow him. When he doesn’t, he stops and turns around, exasperated. “Are you coming?”

Crowley saunters over to him, plucks the keys from his hand and tucks them into Cas’s pants pocket. “As much as I treasure our memories of long nights on the road in your shrine to Daddy’s sub-par parenting, we’ll be leaving it here for now, along with your mobile.”

Before he can react, demon douche two reaches into Dean’s jacket pocket and confiscates his cell phone.

“I’m having him kept busy, but that Moose is a wily one, and we don’t want him tracking us down and mucking things up for poor, helpless Castiel now, do we?”

So that explains why Sam never made it here. “If you so much as touch a hair on his head, Crowley--”

“I know, I know. You’ll kill me.” Crowley feigns a yawn, stretches his arms for effect. “Don’t fret. He’s fine. I have no intention of harming the giant cub scout. Although, after today, he may think twice before he plays with witches again.”

Dean narrows his eyes.

“So how will we get there, you ask? Excellent question, Squirrel. I just so happen to have a new car.”

“Whatever. I’m driving,” Dean hisses at the demon, but it's not at all satisfying. The more venom Dean spews, the more amused Crowley becomes.

“Of course you are, darling,” Crowley placates. “Don’t I always let you lead when we dance?”

______________________________

“Is this some kind of fucking joke?”

Dean stands stock-still in front of the jubilee gold, nineteen seventy-eight Lincoln Continental. “Stealing his body ain’t enough for you? You’ve gotta go full _Single White Female?_ ”

“I found this vehicle abandoned in a municipal tow yard.” Crowley shrugs. “I believe the applicable term is finders keepers.”

Dean wants to punch him right in Cas’s face, but he squeezes his mouth shut and slides into the driver’s seat of Cas’s car because the sooner this begins, the sooner it will end. At least Crowley cleaned it up. It no longer smells like Gap sweaters and vomit.

“Why?” Dean asks when they're finally on the highway.

“Why what?”

Dean bites back his anger as much as he can. “You know what I’m talking about. Why all this? With Cas.”

“Well, I know that you’ve noticed how very juicy this prime cut meatsuit is.” Crowley places one hand on Castiel’s knee, then slides it slowly up along his thigh. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands off of myself.”

“Hey, you don't touch him,” Dean scolds.

“Technically--”

“I mean it, Crowley. Or I’ll end this for both of us.”

Crowley acquiesces, holds up both hands in a submissive gesture. “Careful, Squirrel. That sounded awfully territorial. One might get the wrong impression.” Crowley closes his eyes. His forehead creases in thought for several seconds before he opens them again, grinning arrogantly. “Or perhaps the right one?”

“This isn’t funny.”

Crowley shrugs. “That depends entirely on your perspective.”

“Well if you ask me, it looks like you’re obsessed with him. Like you’ve got yourself a bad case of angel envy.”

“Envious of Heaven’s saddest sack? Don’t be absurd,” Crowley snickers. “I’ve been working with Sam to find a way to remove the Mark of Cain, but I care nothing about the angel. What happened with the spell was purely accidental. Although a happy one at that.”

Dean snorts. “Not buying it. Accidents don’t happen accidentally. At least not when you’re involved.” Dean bites his lip, hesitates before he asks the next question. “Is this because of the Blade? Because I gave it to Cas instead of back to you? Are you doing this to Cas to get back at me for hurting your feelings?”

“Feelings?” Crowley gasps, then shakes his finger at Dean. “I will admit that it did cause a certain riff within my family,” Crowley says. “Mother had been pestering me about the one-sided nature of our friendship, and then you proved her to be right. It was oddly difficult to go home without it. But feelings? No. I don’t indulge in such nonsense.”

Clearly Crowley is in denial. Dean is well aware of the demon’s emotional state, having seen it, on many occasions, firsthand. “You saved him before, when I was a demon, so don’t give me this you-could-care-less about him crap.”

“I did that for you.” Crowley states plainly. “You were a terrible demon. I knew that he and Sam were the only ones who had any chance of saving you from yourself. No other reason. But in the interest of full disclosure and because you will find out soon enough, I will confess to you that the spell he is under now was indeed my doing.”

Motherfucker. Dean slams his fist on the dashboard, and the ferocity of it makes Crowley jump. Despite the evidence, he’d still been holding onto some hope that Crowley hadn’t intended to harm Cas, while questioning the part of him that wanted it to be true. Crowley just keeps making it harder and harder not to kill him.

“I needed to get your attention.”

“There are a lot of other ways to get my attention.”

“Yes, but none better, frankly. Nor quite as ironic. Plus, I thought it would be a kick to peek inside this mop-top and see just what makes your little bird tick. I can’t say I’m disappointed.”

Crowley tips his head from side to side, an occasional “hmm” or “aha” coming from his pursed lips. Dean avoids looking, tries to act disinterested but watches Crowley out of the corner of his eye. He grates his jaw and faces the road in front of him.

“It’s positively byzantine in here. A bit haphazard, but… oh, yes, here we are. Anything in particular you’d like to know? I’d be happy to do a little digging for you.”

Dean glowers at his passenger for as long as he safely can while continuing to drive. He’s pissed - at Crowley for the offer, at himself for the brief moment he considers taking him up on it. There have been many times when he would’ve given almost anything for insight into Cas’s thoughts, lately more than ever before. But when Crowley looks at him with Cas’s face and twists his friend’s full, pale pink lips into a knowing smirk, Dean is reminded of the heinous violation that is happening right in front of him, next to him, and he’ll have no part of it.

This is what he did to Sam - what he let happen to his own brother - and the shame of it wells up inside all over again. Once Cas’s grace is back where it belongs, he won’t put up a fight. He’ll go with Crowley willingly, and hope that Cas and Sam think of themselves for once and recognize that they both need a reprieve from Dean Winchester. At least until he finds a way to get rid of the curse on his arm.

“No questions? Really? You’re not even remotely curious?”

His knuckles pale as he tightens his grip on the steering wheel.

“What now, the silent treatment? The cold shoulder? Are we in secondary school?”

The Mark on his arm throbs, as if telling him to do to Crowley what he should have done a long time ago.

“He was very happy to see his car, by the way. Of his very few material possessions, this pimpmobile is his favorite. Inexplicably, he’s quite attached to it.”

Dean gives himself away when he drops his chin. He wants to ignore him, but Dean knows that what Crowley just said is true. Dean tries to recover, to look uninterested and unaffected, but he can’t because he isn't.  If it’s not just a good guess and Crowley really does have access to Cas’s mind, he can’t pretend he doesn’t care about what’s in there.

Crowley laughs at him.

“Well, not too inexplicably,” Crowley gloats. “He seems to equate it with his much-needed independence, interestingly enough, not only from Heaven, but from the brothers Winchester. Well, one brother more than the other, it would appear.”

“You’re lying,” Dean challenges, but he has an awful feeling in his gut that he isn’t. “You said he had it all wrapped up tight. How do I know he’s even awake in there?”

“Oh, he’s fully aware of what’s happening. Doesn’t like me in here one bit.”

“No kidding,” Dean snaps back.

“He’s doing an admirable job of keeping me at bay, but there’s so much, and he’s so, so weak.”

“He’s stronger than you think.”

“One can only imagine the depth of knowledge stored away in here. Classified angelic information, the ancient mysteries of Heaven. Topped off with his own, deep, dark and oh-so-personal secrets. He wants to keep it all from me, but he can’t. He’s got too many cracks, and it’s all beginning to leak out.”

Dean shakes his head. “You’re so full of shit your eyes are brown.”

“How pedestrian. Good to see that you’re still spot on with the clever comebacks,” Crowley says. “Hate to disappoint, but my eyes, in case you haven’t noticed, are extraordinarily blue.” Dean looks at Crowley - at Castiel - and swallows the scream on the back of his tongue.

“But of course, you _have_ noticed. You rather like these eyes, don’t you?” Crowley turns to his side, his eyes flitting up and down, taking Dean in, examining him. “It’s a maze of regret and self-loathing in here, and all of it, every last bit of it, has one common thread. Can you guess what that is? Or, I should say, who?”

Dean won’t look at him, but he hears the glee in the demon’s voice. “Shut up.”

“Oh my, this bit is interesting.”

“I said shut up, Crowley.” Dean growls the name in warning.

“He wishes he had never--”

Dean jerks the wheel hard and to the left. The tires squeal when the car swings sharply in that direction. He can’t stand another second of Crowley’s blustering. Whatever he was about to disclose, Dean can fill in the blanks on his own. Saved Dean, fallen for Dean, loved Dean. Pick one. They all fit.

Crowley’s hands fly out in front of him as his body is thrown abruptly into the passenger side door, his head banging hard against the glass window. The headlights of the oncoming traffic Dean’s turned into blinds them both, but he maintains control. While Dean's pretty sure there are no humans that can be killed in this car, there’s at least one in the truck ahead of them, and so he yanks the wheel - and the vehicle - back into their own lane well before any real threat of collision.

It works. Dean keeps driving as if nothing happened, while Crowley sits uncharacteristically quiet for the remainder of the trip.

“Turn here,” Crowley says lowly, pointing at the highway sign, and Dean does. They travel further, several more miles away from the highway and down a narrowing road, until Crowley has him stop in front of a dark, vacant warehouse.

“Typical,” Dean complains as they make their way into the dilapidated structure. “I was hoping for a little change of pace. Thought Metatron might’ve kept to his scribe-of-God theme and hidden Cas’s grace in a library or something.”

“He did.” Crowley replies. “The library of an all girls christian academy, actually.”

“Then why are we--”

“It’s been brought here. We’re meeting some friends. Didn’t I tell you?”

Dean pushes the sliding door in front of him aside, then stumbles back a step when he sees what’s behind it.

“I believe you’ve met my mother, Rowena.” Crowley waves his arm toward the red-haired woman in mock introduction. Rowena steps aside to offer a clear view of the barely conscious man handcuffed to the chair behind her. “And of course, you know her new playmate.”

Dean takes several heavy breaths before calling out to his brother. “Sam!”


	12. Chapter 12

Dean’s been doing this too long to truly be knocked for a loop, but he never expected Crowley’s mother to be the witch that got away.

“Fergus! My dear, you are stunning!”

Rowena greets Crowley with excessive enthusiasm. Crowley resists slightly, tucking Cas’s arms away, one under the other, as Rowena wraps hers around him. She drags her hand across Cas’s face.

“It’s every mother’s dream to have raised such a handsome, strapping lad,” she gushes, then steps back and looks him over one more time. “He’s every bit as lovely as you described.”

Crowley sighs, irritated. “Might I remind you, _Mother_ , that you did not _raise_ me.”

It was hard enough to wrap his head around the idea that Crowley had a mother at all, but now it’s starting to make some sense. The family dynamics are interesting, although Dean’s not sure why he would have expected anything else. He takes mental notes, in case an opportunity presents itself to use this dysfunction to his advantage.

“Bygones, my boy. Bygones.” Rowena wags her finger at her son. “I’m only saying that your new vessel suits you. And I’ve brought you everything you asked for, including the walloping Winchester, so maybe a wee bit of gratitude as well?”

New vessel? It’s only temporary, that was what Crowley promised, but looking around, he’s beginning to doubt that, along with everything else Crowley has told him. He makes a move toward Sam, but Rowena shouts something in Latin that he doesn’t recognize, then holds up one hand. His entire body goes rigid for a split second, keeping him in place, until he falls into a chair that Crowley has carefully placed behind him.

“I wish I could say it’s a pleasure to see you again, Dean Winchester,” she says.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

There’s a table in the middle of the room. A candle and a shallow metal bowl are set on top of it, next to an angel blade and amid a scattering of flowers and other items that Dean cannot identify. Lying open on the floor near Sam’s feet is a large carpet bag, which, Dean surmises, belongs to Rowena.

“What’s going on?” Dean asks Crowley. “What the hell does she mean by ‘new vessel?’ And why is Sam here? This is between me and you.”

“‘Me and you.’ Now those were the days.” Crowley raises his chin and cocks Cas’s head, remembering. “I’d scratch your back, you’d scratch mine. So many opportunities to off one another left by the wayside. And that was _before_ our Lollapalooza tour.”

Dean wishes he could flat out deny it, but he can’t. He and Sam have let Crowley slide more times than he can count. There always seemed to be a good reason, although Dean can’t recall a single one at the moment. Instead, the simple truth of Cas’s child-like decree plays over and over in his head. _Crowley is bad._

Rowena crosses her arms and grunts, rolls her eyes.

“Something to say, Mother?” Crowley asks, his back still to her.

“No Fergus. You’re doing just great.”

Crowley continues. “Me and you. Now that’s the problem, isn’t it?. Nothing can ever be _just_ between me and you. Your hapless brother. Your cursed angel. You _need,_ Squirrel, and with Mother’s help, I intend to answer that need.”

He has no idea what Crowley’s talking about, but it can’t be good. “Look, I don’t know what the fuck you’re getting at, but let Sam go. Then we’ll recharge Cas, and I’ll go with you. We can hit every karaoke bar on the West Coast, if that’s what this is about. Wherever you want to go. But Sam’s out of this.”

Dean glances at Sam, whose head lolls to one side, his eyes closed. He can’t believe his brother is handcuffed to a chair. Again. This is where the secrets get them. Every goddamned time.

“I don’t know why you keep going on about Sam. I’ve assured you that I won’t harm him. After all, he’s been nothing but helpful. In fact, none of this here today would have been possible if it wasn’t for him. Not only did he assist in casting the spell, he provided me with the one ingredient necessary to complete this little project.”

Dean sneers. “This is where I take the bait and ask you what the hell you mean by that?”

Crowley chuckles, saunters over to Sam while he speaks. “What I mean is, Castiel’s grace. Haven’t you wondered, Squirrel, how _I_ managed to get hold of some of Castiel’s grace?”

Sam raises his head and looks at Dean, panic in his eyes. “No,” he says, shaking his head.

“Oh yes.” Crowley pats Sam on the top of his head. “Could never have done it without you. You know it’s true, and I think your brother should know as well.”

Dean grits his teeth, fuming, angry that he's once again been kept in the dark.

“Moose has provided me with a smidgen of your angel’s grace,” Crowley explains. “Which he apparently obtained from a young girl named Claire Novak. Have you heard of her?”

Sam looks down when Dean shoots him a surprised look.

“According to your learned brother, the Men of Letters found a way to track the pesky buggers through small amounts of grace extracted from former vessels. Always the thinker, our Moose is, and he thought it might also aid in the search for the remainder of Castiel’s grace.”

“And he did that for you?” He shouldn't have to ask.  He hates that he has to ask.

“No!” Sam jerks forward when he yells, catches himself before the chair topples over. He shakes his head adamantly. “I gave it to Cas. He was pissed that I involved Claire, but he understood what I was trying to do. He kept it, in case we ever found some way to use it. He was looking into - he was researching - hoping it might be of some use in getting rid of the Mark.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?”

“Really Dean?” Sam says. “You had too much to worry about already. It was right after Pontiac and you were--” Sam stops, bites his lip and doesn’t finish.

Dean gulps and nods once in acknowledgment. He looks up at Crowley, who has made his way back to Dean’s side. “If you gave it to Cas, how did you get it back, Sam?”

“I wasn’t looking for it, I swear,” Sam tells him. “Remember when we searched Cas’s room? I found it then, in his desk, and I… I kept it.”

“You kept it,” Dean repeats with deceptive calm. “So how did it wind up in the hands of the King of Hell? You wanna explain that to me?”

Sam rolls his shoulders, tugs at his bound hands. “He said his mother - Rowena - had a spell and could find Cas’s grace with it. But I didn’t know about the rest of it, Dean.”

“What ‘rest of it?’” Dean looks back and forth between the three of them, until his eyes lock on Sam’s.

Crowley steps in front of him, blocking his brother from view. “Well, Squirrel, that’s the good news. Since you like this body I’m currently wearing so much, I’ve decided to keep it.”

“Keep it? No, you can’t! What about Cas? What vessel will he...”

Crowley raises a finger. “And there’s the rub. I guess he and I will have to share.”

“No! He can have me. You can keep the body, just let him inside me first!” Dean begs. He’s not above it; never has been when it comes to those he loves. And he loves Cas. There’s no doubt in his mind that he does, and Cas can take his body and use it however he needs to survive.

“He can have _me,_ ” Sam echoes from across the room. “I say yes! Do you hear me Cas? Yes!”

“Don't be a fool, Samuel,” Rowena laughs. “He can’t _hear_ you.”

“Let him _in_ you?” Crowley assesses Dean for several moments, then snickers. “You don’t even _try_ to be subtle anymore, do you. It’s disturbing how after everything he’s done, you’d both gladly just bend over for the fluffy bastard.”

“Everything Cas has ever done has been for the sake of humanity.” Dean argues. “Not out of spite like some butthurt pissbaby.”

Rowena giggles, lowers her chin. “He’s not wrong,” she mutters, somewhat under her breath.

Crowley turns to her with an admonishing look. She clears her throat and raises her head, tries to wipe the smile from her face. “I’m sorry, Fergus. You were saying?”

The demon gestures toward the table and turns back to Dean. “Looks like we’ll have to work on your name-calling skills too. They seem to have taken a downhill slide.”

Rowena places several items, one at a time, into the metal bowl. She begins to softly murmur what sounds like an incantation.

“It’s a generous offer, Squirrel, but no. He’ll stay as he is. A virtual child, locked away in here, with me until…” Crowley purses his lips, taps them with his finger. “Well, forever.” He walks over to the table beside Rowena. “Are we ready to begin, Mother?”

“Yes, deary. All set.”

“You see, what my talented mother has prepared for us today is a very special binding spell. It will unify me with both vessel and its heavenly occupant.”

“Why?” Dean spits out while straining to free himself. “I don’t get it. Just tell me why.”

“Many many reasons, the least of which is for you, Dean. For us, and the future of our alliance. No matter where we go or what we do, it seems there will always be this angel-shaped wedge between us. So I decided, if you can't beat them - as the saying goes - join them.  It will make our time together easier for you, in the long run.”

“You sick fuck.”

“It might be awkward at first, but you’ll get used to it. And as a bonus, I’ll have unfettered access to the contents of the angel’s wayward mind while he sits in the corner and plays with tinker toys.” Crowley crouches down, levels his face inches away from Dean’s. “And I know you’ll be a good little pet, because if I die, he dies.”

“Son of a bitch!” Dean tries to jump from the chair, but he’s still bound by an unseen force.

Crowley smirks. “For once, Squirrel, you’ve hit the nail on the head.”

Rowena pushes her brows together and pouts in feigned offense. She’s finished chanting, and steps away from the table as Crowley takes her place in front of the bowl.

“What about Cas’s grace?”  Sam must be trying to buy time, and Dean appreciates that, but the only option Dean sees is the weapon lying on the table. Sam encourages Crowley to respond. “You said Rowena could locate it. That’s what you told me.”

Rowena drops her hands to her hips and shakes her head.

“All I have of it is the paltry bit left in this bottle that you handed over so willingly.” Crowley slips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a small, sealed vial. “Unfortunately, Mother has not lived up to her own PR, and has, despite her efforts, failed to unearth the rest of it,” he says bitterly.

Rowena shrugs, bats her lashes. “I don’t know what could possibly have gone wrong, dear.”

Sam is watching Rowena intently, trying to get her attention while she bends down in front of him to remove a Bowie knife from her bag and hand it to Crowley. Dean thinks he catches a sideways glance at Sam, her lips curling into an almost imperceptible smile, but he could be wrong.

“It would have been the _piece de resistance_ of my collection, but all’s forgiven, Mother. We won’t be needing it after all.” Crowley returns the vial to his pocket and turns his attention to the table in front of him. Rowena begins to chant again, a different one this time. She pours melted candle wax into the bowl while Crowley uses the Bowie knife to slice across Cas’s forearm, dripping blood over the bowl’s contents before he lays it back down.

Dean can’t take any more. The Mark hammers in his arm when he sees Cas bleeding. He makes one more last ditch effort to get free and wrenches himself from the chair.

He’s shocked that it works, but he shouldn’t be. The Mark has given him supernatural strength before. He lurches forward to the table, grabs the angel blade and points it at Cas’s throat before Crowley realizes what is going on.

“Get out of him, or I’ll kill you.”

“No. You won’t.” Crowley says it with such certainty that Dean nudges the tip of the blade into the smooth flesh of Cas’s neck in an attempt to prove him wrong. “Kill me, kill him.”

He knows that, of course, but hearing it out loud is something else altogether. He hesitates, and Crowley laughs at him.

“Cas would rather be dead than ride out eternity with _you_.” Dean tightens his grip on the blade, presses it further into Cas’s soft skin.

“I don’t doubt that.  He's quite the sacrificial little lamb,” Crowley scoffs. “But _he’s_ not the one holding that knife.”

Rowena moves behind Sam with something in her hand, but Dean can’t look away from Crowley, from Cas, to see whatever it is she is doing.

“The spell is working, I can _feel_ it,” Crowley taunts.

“Rowena. Stop this!” Sam kicks his feet and yells, as if he’s angry and warning her, but she holds up one hand and continues to watch.

It seems odd, out of place, the way Sam is interacting with Crowley’s mother, but he doesn’t have time to think it through. The window of opportunity is about to slam shut, and the Mark, burning red on his arm, won’t be satisfied until he finishes what he has started.

“Please, Dean.”

Dean’s heart stops, misses a beat when he hears Cas’s true voice, pleading to him. “Please. Do it.”

“Dean don't!” Sam bellows from the other side of the table.

Rowena shushes him. “It's the only way, Samuel.”

Dean drops his eyes. “I’m sorry Cas,” he chokes out as he steps back, lowers the weapon. Crowley relaxes, releases a loud sigh, but his relief is misplaced. Dean lunges forward and thrusts the blade into Crowley’s belly.

Dean doesn’t move. The rapid, heavy pounding of his own heart is deafening. Sam is screaming at him, but Dean can only hear the muffled sounds of desperation in his brother’s voice. He watches Cas’s face screw up in pain before the angel stumbles back, pulling himself off of the blade still clenched in Dean’s fist. Suddenly Sam is there, behind Cas, keeping him in place with one arm while the other holds a glass jar with familiar markings over Cas’s open mouth. Sam is saying something, Dean can see his mouth moving, but he can’t make out the words. Rowena stands by his side, giddy, smiling wildly and clapping her hands together while the jar fills with thick, red smoke.

Sam has to let go of Cas in order to screw the lid onto the jar, and when Cas’s body falls to the ground with a sickening thud, Dean snaps out of it and drops the blade.  His legs fail just as he gets to Cas. He sinks to his knees on the ground beside him, panting and fisting his hair with both hands.

“What did I do? What did I do?”

Sam appears on the other side of Cas, lays his hand over the triangular gash on Cas’s abdomen. Dean placed it low and off center in the hopes that it might not be fatal. Cas’s eyes are closed and he is unresponsive, but the wound beneath Sam’s palm glows with the dull white light escaping from it.

“He’s alive,” Sam says, gasping for air. “Dean, it’s gonna be okay. He’s still alive and it's gonna be okay. Rowena, bring me the--”

Both men look up, but Rowena, her carpet bag, and the demon-filled jar are all gone. Sam growls, then shoves his hand into Cas’s pocket, pulls out the vial of grace he had recovered from Claire and puts it in Dean’s hand.

“Give him this for now,” he tells Dean. “It’s not enough, but it should help until I get back.” Dean has so many questions, but they’ll have to wait. He has no choice but to trust his brother because Sam springs to his feet and runs after the witch.

He lifts Cas’s head and rests it on his thigh. With one hand, he gently pries open Cas’s mouth, then uses his teeth to pull the cork from the vial. He feeds the small bit of grace inside to Cas, slides his hand along his stubbled jaw to comfort him as he does.

A bright light emanates from Cas’s body, flashes briefly before it dims and disappears. It’s nothing like he’s seen before, but it’s something, and when Cas opens his eyes and says his name, Dean presses the palms of his hands to his eyes to relieve the pressure, keep himself in check.

“Dean.” Cas says again, his voice small and weak. He tries to raise his arm, fingers reaching for Dean’s face, but he doesn’t have the strength. Dean catches his hand before it falls, clasps it against his chest.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Dean assures him, even though he has no idea if it’s the truth. “I’m gonna take a look, okay?” Cas nods, and Dean pushes the hem of his shirt up to examine the damage he has done. The wound hasn’t healed, but it’s no longer leaking grace. It lies directly beneath the Enochian tattoo, and Dean’s fingers absently brush over the inked symbols.

“Not so bad,” he lies. “We’re gonna get you fixed up and back in business in no time.”

“I don’t think--”

“Don’t you say it.” Dean interrupts, stops him from saying words that Dean can’t bear to hear. “We don’t give up. Winchesters don’t give up Cas, you hear me?’

“Yes.”

Dean straightens Cas’s shirt, pulls it back down over him. “Besides, you know I can’t live without… I mean I can’t lose…” The last few words get stuck in his throat, and he swallows them down.

“Your right arm?”

Dean pauses mid-nod, then smiles and shakes his head. “No, that’s not it. You, Cas. I can’t lose _you_.”

Cas smiles, teeth and all, and Dean feels lighter, calmer, willing to believe that Sam was right, that everything is going to be okay. He strokes Cas’s face, combs his fingers through his hair, feels him shiver.

Dean looks around quickly, as if he might find a blanket in this damp, empty warehouse. He yanks his jacket off and lays it over Cas, then pulls him up into his lap so Cas’s back is to his chest and his head rests against Dean’s shoulder. He folds his arms around him, taking both of Cas’s hands in his. Without a wall to support his back he leans forward into Cas, finds his mouth by Cas’s ear. “ _Please_.” he whispers. “Just hold on, buddy.”

“You too,” Cas manages, breathless.

 _Never letting go._ Dean doesn't say it out loud.  He doesn't have to, because Cas _knows_.  He pulls Cas closer, holds him tighter, and waits.


	13. Chapter 13

Hope is a tricky thing, and normally Dean avoids it like the plague. If you’re not careful, it’ll hoodwink you. It’ll have you believing all is well when it isn’t. It’ll lull you into inaction. Yet waiting in this warehouse, with Cas dying and Cain’s words playing over and over in his head, he clings to it. He wouldn’t be able to breathe without it.

_I'm doing you a favor. I'm saving you._

The telltale pulsing in his arm reminds him of the last time he held the First Blade, the perverse pleasure that coursed through his veins when he turned it on its owner. He doesn’t want to remember, but the Mark insists on it. It will never let him forget.

_Have you never mused upon the fact that you're living my life in reverse?_

Cain claimed love enabled him to resist the Mark’s urges for so many years - that is, until Dean came along and offered the revenge Cain had never sought. Dean remembers the photo of his wife Colette that Cain kept on the mantel, the story he told of her death, and when he looks down at the limp, unconscious body he holds desperately in his arms, he all at once understands Cain’s loss, the true depth of his anguish, the root of his desire to end it once and for all.

_And then you'd kill the angel, Castiel._

Dean flattens his palm over the injury he inflicted, feels the warmth of Cas’s skin. Crowley has been forced out, and unlike Cain’s Colette, Cas is alive - barely, but still _alive -_ and there _is_ goddamned hope because Cain was wrong. In all his prophesizing about Dean following in his footsteps, Cain failed to see the most important difference between them. He forgot that Dean has something that Cain did not.

Dean has Sam. Dean has his brother.

“I’ve got you.” Dean whispers into Cas’s ear, waits for a response that doesn’t come. “Sammy’ll be back any minute, and then everything’s going to be okay.”

______________________________

 

Dean doesn’t shut his eyes.

He doesn’t want to, doesn’t have to, courtesy of the Mark, but he yells out a warning for Sam to look away and Sam heeds it by turning his back to them and covering his eyes with his forearm.

It’s the first time - and he has no doubt that it will be the only time - that this curse on his arm has given him a gift, because bearing witness to what is happening right before his wide-open eyes is just that.

When Sam returned without Rowena, red-faced and so winded that he was unable to get words out, Dean considered that he’d been wrong to expect one more miracle, that he'd once again been deceived by hope, until Sam hunkered down in front of them and unfurled his giant fist.

“I made a deal with Rowena,” Sam confessed, catching his breath. “I know what you’re thinking and I’m sorry, but I had to do it. I had to.”

The bottle in the palm of Sam’s shaky hand was both explanation and offering.

“It’s his, Dean. I promise. It’s Cas’s grace.”

Sam expected him to lash out, to be outraged that he was once again working with a witch, that he made another dangerous deal - this time with the mother of the king of fucking Hell for crissakes - and maybe he should’ve been. But Sam had Cas’s grace - _Cas’s grace_ \- and Dean couldn’t bring himself to give two shits about how or what his brother did to get it. Instead he grabbed the bottle and ordered Sam to back away.

Now, Cas is on his knees, fully immersed in blinding white-blue light, and Dean is _watching_. Cas reaches out, touches Dean’s face with the tips of his fingers, and intense heat hits Dean like a torrent, sears into and through him, fuses with something already inside him. It burns, but Dean makes no move away from Cas, until he is abruptly thrust several feet away by an explosive force that shatters the overhead lights and topples the table and chair.

Cas rises slowly as the light surrounding him dims, but continues to glow. His eyes flash unearthly blue while broken, incorporeal wings spread out on either side of him, their mutilated remains revealed in shadow. A halo forms above and around Cas’s head, fades and disappears with the rest of the light.

Less than half of a minute has passed, but it feels like much longer. The fine hairs on Dean’s arms and the back of his neck stand on end, a low but steady vibrato hums just beneath the layers of his skin. He doesn’t move, probably couldn’t if he wanted to. He’s still in shock from what he just saw, from what he just _felt_.

Cas is too. He holds his hands up, blinks at them as if he’s seeing them for the first time, then turns his attention to Dean. His head tips to one side while he regards Dean for several long moments, the once glowing eyes now soft and warm, the sharp features of his face so relaxed and gentle that it makes Dean’s chest hurt.

Dean forces himself to his feet when Cas calls his name and steps toward him.

“Dean.” Cas says a second time, and he’s shaken by the way Cas makes that one word sound so _big_. So _significant_. Dean readies himself, swallows his unease. Whatever Cas offers him, whatever Cas is willing to give to him, he wants it.

A blurred flash of hair and plaid distracts him as Sam pounces on Cas from the other side of the room. The force of it nearly takes Cas to the ground while Sam envelopes him in his inhumanly long arms.

“Cas! You’re back!”

Knocked off of his intended path by Sam’s friendly assault, Cas hesitates before he brings his arms up and around Sam. Dean shuffles his feet, but stays in place and allows his guilt-ridden brother this time. He lowers his head, and even though he can still hear them, he turns slightly away to give them privacy.

“Are you okay? Are you back back? ” Sam pats Cas’s arms, checking for injuries.

“Yes, Sam, I am well,” Cas confirms.

“That’s good. I’ve been so… ” There’s a crack in Sam’s voice, and he stops talking long enough to wipe his sleeved arm across his eyes. “Do you… can you remember _anything?_ ”

“Anything?” Cas narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Rowena told me she could break the spell, but that your memory would be affected. She said that once she reversed it, you’d lose everything that happened after your grace had been damaged enough for the de-aging part of the spell to take hold.”

Dean jerks his head up when he hears what Sam is saying and begins to listen in earnest, tries to catch every word between them. Screw privacy.

“Ah.” Castiel says it slowly, his eyes carefully studying Sam’s face.

“I know it sounds bad.” Sam tucks some loose strands of hair behind his ears. “But from everything Dean told me, from what I saw for myself, you were pretty sick. I mean, _really_ sick. And it’s all my fault. Every bit of it. I’m the one who did this to you, and I’m so sorry. I’m so… ”

Cas shakes his head. “Sam, don’t say that. There’s no need to--”

“No, Cas, listen to me. Dean was right to be pissed at me. You don’t remember, but what I did, what I put you through, it hurt you more than just physically. You were compromised in every way possible. So if the spell erased all of that, or even any it, it would be almost as if …” Sam stops, drops his chin, and even with Sam’s back to him Dean sees how much Sam wants it, hears it in his voice. “I’m just saying that maybe, this once, forgetting is a good thing.”

Sam wants it, but the thought of it guts Dean.

“I understand.” Cas takes a moment before he shrugs, then looks up at Sam, “Well, Sam, I couldn’t tell you what, if anything, I am missing, but the last thing I do remember is resting in the back seat of the impala on the way back to the bunker after our successful rugaru hunt in Missouri,” Cas says. “And then I was suddenly awoken to discover that Crowley had taken residence in my vessel.”

Sam’s entire frame relaxes into a long, loud exhale. “Yeah, I’m sorry about that, but Rowena said she had to remove the de-aging curse before Crowley started the binding spell.” Sam grins, twists around to gesture at Dean. “You hear that Dean? He doesn’t remember any of it.”

 _Son of a bitch._ Dean’s sick to his stomach, nauseous, and it’s not from being tossed across the room by Cas’s grace. He shakes it off for appearances, shoves one hand into his pants pocket, rubs the back of his neck with the other one.

“Yeah, I heard. That’s, that's awesome.” It’s not. It’s the farthest thing from awesome, as far as Dean’s concerned, but it’s selfish for him to feel this way, so he'll keep it to himself. Sam’s not wrong. As much as it hurts, it’s not bad that Cas can't remember how sick and guileless and vulnerable he was, even if Dean will never forget. “We should get going before the wicked witch lets her devil spawn out of the pickle jar.”

“That’s not going to happen any time soon,” Sam assures, and although he wants Crowley dead, Dean can’t help but approve of the idea of keeping him bottled up on a shelf like some kind of demonic knickknack. There’s something poetically just about it.

Sam throws an arm around Cas’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you both the whole story on the way back to the bunker.”

______________________________

 

Sam is as excited as he was the day Dean brought him to a field to set off illegal fireworks. Every word out of his mouth bubbles with it, and there are a helluva lot of them since Sam chatters non-stop while he drives from the warehouse to the bunker. Cas sits shotgun, and Dean lays low in the back seat, grateful that Sam is doing all of the talking, so he doesn’t have to.

At least Sam’s informative. He answers the obvious questions without being asked, explains how Rowena contacted him when he was on his way to meet Dean and told him she had something he’d been looking for. She wanted to make a deal: one dead King of Hell in exchange for Cas’s grace. Initially, Sam was sure it was a hoax, some sort of trick set up by Crowley himself, that there was no way that she actually had Cas’s grace. But he couldn’t risk the chance that it wasn’t, and he had to find out for himself.

“I was going to call you, Dean, and let you know as soon as I knew for sure one way or another, but then Crowley called his mom to tell her he’d hijacked Cas and needed the binding spell, and everything changed.”

“And you let her get away? With your car?” Dean sprawls out even more in the rear of Cas’s Lincoln. It's been too long since he was in the back seat of a car voluntarily.

“Yes, I did. I got what we needed and I was in a hurry to get back to you and Cas. Besides, we had a deal.”

“Right,” Dean mumbles. “And it was the damn hatchback you were driving, wasn’t it? Not even the truck.” If it had been the truck, they could track Rowena down right now, catch her before she upgrades to a better vehicle.

“Yes, it was the hatchback. It’s a crappy car, Dean. One less old mechanical thing for us to take care of.  Why does it matter?”

“No reason.” Dean responds too quickly, and Sam glares at him in the rearview mirror. He's suspicious, and rightfully so.  Dean might as well tell him, since it’s all going to come out sooner than later. “Actually, there _is_ a reason. I have a tracker on the truck, but not on the hatchback.” Dean finds it strangely easy to be truthful with his brother.

“So you’ve been… “ Sam pinches his lips together, keeps himself from responding while he processes the new information. “So that’s how you found me at the yarn shop?”

“Yep. And before you say anything, I agree that we should probably talk about this stuff and hammer it all out.”

“This stuff?”

“Boundaries and limits, or whatever. You know, privacy and shit.”

“Are you saying you actually _want_ to talk about it?”

“ _Want_ to? No. But I know that _you_ want to, and I’m saying that yes, we should. We have to, and I’m willing to. Preferably sometime after the noon hour, so you don’t get all judgy about my liquor intake.”

“Wow, okay, then.” Sam nods. “Good enough.”

______________________________

 

Before they’d left the warehouse, Sam suggested that it would be best to go back for the Impala tomorrow, after everyone had gotten some rest and they could be prepared for the possibility that there were demons lying in wait for them at the nursing home. Reluctantly, Dean agreed, but he can’t deny that he’s relieved. He’s tired, drained, and the knot in his belly is so tight that it’s going to require large quantities of hunter’s helper to loosen it up. When they get to the bunker, all he wants to do is grab a bottle of Jack and head straight for his room. But, dammit to hell, Cas has other ideas.

“I want to thank you,” Cas says sincerely to both brothers. They’d gotten as far as the steps down to the hallway leading to the living quarters before Cas turned around and stopped them. “Sam, you have recovered my grace, and I owe you nothing less than my life.”

Sam hands Cas the keys to his car. “You don’t owe me anything, Cas. We’re all in this together. It’s what we do for each other. We’re family, right Dean?”

Family. That’s all Dean thought he wanted when he asked Cas to stay at the bunker.  A place to call home. People to come home to. Now, though, it doesn’t feel like enough. He forces a half-grin, nods once in agreement.

“I like that very much.” Cas slips the keys into his pocket before turning to Dean. “And thank you also, Dean, for, for, for...”

Dean jumps in when Cas wavers. “For what? For shanking you? For almost killing you?”

“For doing what I asked of you. For trusting me.”

Dean averts his eyes, tries to look elsewhere, but Cas catches his and looks at him the same way he did in the diner before Crowley kidnapped him. The same way he did when he told him that he loved him _too_ , and Dean had thought, for a few stupidly naive minutes, that maybe he _was_ made that way, that he and Cas could make each other happy.

Sam clears his throat. “Well I’m bushed.” His eyes dart back and forth between the two men. “I think I’ll just go to my room, and, uhm, hit the sack.”

The sound of Sam’s voice brings Dean back to the present. “Good idea. I’m right behind ya.”

“Wait.” Cas steps in front of Dean. “Perhaps we could talk?”

“About?”

“Uh,” Cas looks around the room, then holds up his arm. “I seem to be wearing your watch.”

“That you are. I can explain that tomorrow. But tonight, I’ve got some things to figure out.”

“What things?” Cas questions.

“None of your--” Dean regrets his tone immediately, stops himself before he says something he doesn’t mean. This isn’t Cas’s fault. If there’s blame to lay, it’s with him for taking on the Mark in the first place. He softens his voice. “Look, just _things,_ okay? We’ll do the talking gig tomorrow. Me and you, me and Sam, me, you, and Sam, whatever. Tomorrow we can all talk ‘til the cows come home.”

Cas is perplexed yet genuinely concerned. “Where are these cows now?”

“It’s just another saying,” Sam laughs, pats Cas on the back. “Don’t worry, there’s no cattle drive headed our way.”

Dean offers a tired grin, points to Cas’s wrist. “About the watch. You should keep it.” Once he’d wrapped that watch around Cas’s wrist, he had no intention of ever taking it back, despite what he'd told Cas at the time. He didn’t know then about Sam’s recon upgrade. “On second thought, you may not want to. Our Sammy here put some kind of mini lojack in it. If you wear it, I’ll always know where you are.”

Sam crosses his arms and shakes his head at Dean.

“I don’t mind,” Cas says.

“Why don’t we all try and get a good night’s sleep.” Sam stretches his arms out over his head and yawns, but continues talking through it. “Well, me and Dean have to sleep. I guess you’re back to not needing any, huh Cas?”

“I’ll be fine.” Cas marches over to the map table, pulls out a chair and sits. “I’ll wait here.”

Okay then. Dean watches Cas settle into his seat at the table, fold his hands together and rest them on top of it.

“Coming?” Sam asks, and Dean follows him down to the end of the main corridor. “Hey Dean, after we get your car tomorrow, I'm gonna double down on the research and find a way to get rid of the Mark. Now that we have Cas at full speed again, I’m sure we can dig up something.”

Dean holds up his arm. He can’t feel it. The Mark itself is concealed under layers of sleeves, but he knows it’s there and he hates it. He hates what it has done to him, hates even more what it has done to the people he loves.

“We should cut the damn thing off.” It's not the first time Dean's made that suggestion.

Sam frowns. “Cas already said that won’t work, that it’s more than just a physical thing.”

Cas did say that, after the massacre in Pontiac. He didn’t seem to know much more than they did about the Mark, other than his certainty that it would take a very powerful, nondescript force to tame it.

“Besides, Dean, what would you do without your right arm?”

“Huh?” Dean looks up at his brother. His right arm? His right arm. Cas. Cas is his right arm. Sam’s talking about the Mark, but there’s something his brain is trying to tell him about his right arm, about Cas. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and scratches his head while he thinks back to the day at the hotel when Cas healed the bird, the evening in the diner, waiting for Sam in the warehouse…

 

_“Besides, you know I can’t live without… I mean I can’t lose…”_

_“Your right arm?”_

 

Cas remembered. In the warehouse, before Sam came back with his grace, he _remembered._

“Dean? You okay?”

Dean blinks several times, then nods with a little too much zeal. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning, okay? Bright and early.”

“Bright and early,” Sam repeats skeptically, but he let’s it go and meanders down the hall toward his room. Dean waves him on when he looks back at him. As soon as Sam disappears around the corner, Dean makes his way back to the war room.


	14. Chapter 14

Dean’s mind has a mind of its own.

He tries to think logically, wrangles his emotions as his brain fills in the blanks. He’s unable to control it as it jumps from one unfinished thought to the next faster than his legs carry him down the hall, each step more indignant than the last. He knows that Cas must have a reason for being untruthful about his memory, but whatever it is, it surely can’t bode well for Dean.

And Dean sure as hell doesn’t deserve to be lied to. Not now. Not by Cas. Especially not by Cas.

Cas is a statue at the table in the war room. Not a surprise; it’s only been minutes since he left him alone there. Dean’s guess is that he hasn’t moved at all. The light from beneath the world-map surface illuminates Cas’s solemn face. He’s preoccupied, so lost in his own thoughts that even with his newly-recharged angel hearing, he doesn’t notice Dean approaching until he is standing right in front of him.

“Hey! Is there something you wanted to tell me?”

It startles Cas. His eyes widen while his mouth opens and closes as if to speak, as if he has something to say but hasn’t quite worked out how to say it. Dean drops his hands to his hips, doesn’t give him a chance to try again. “Something I should know?”

The words sound bitter. They’re crankier and more aggressive than Dean had intended, but he wants answers. He needs answers.

Cas turns his head away, fingers the watch on his own wrist, toys with the buckle of the thick leather band. “It’s late and you’re tired. As you said, we can talk tomorrow when the cows arrive and…” he stops, shakes his head. “It can wait until after we’ve all had a chance to rest.”

No. It can’t. Dean has to know now how much Cas remembers, and more importantly, what he remembers. Dean rolls out the chair nearest to the other man, spins it around on its wheels so that it is next to Cas, facing him. He sits, grips the armrests on either side of him with his fingers. “I’m fine and you don’t need any rest.”

Cas looks up at Dean, sighs.

“Tell me now, Cas.”

Cas moves his hands to his lap, fixes his eyes on them. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

Well that’s just fine because Dean does. “Do you remember the spell? What it did to you?”

“The spell?” Cas tips his head. “You want to talk about the spell? The witch’s spell?”

“Come on, Cas, don’t play dumb.” Dean prods him, frustrated. He expected Cas to spill as soon as he asked the question, but apparently he's going to make Dean drag it out of him. “You and me at the motel. Do you remember any of that?”

“Well, yes.”

“Bowling? Healing the bird?”

“Yes, but--”

“And my watch?” Dean interrupts him. He wants the answers before the explanations. “Do you remember when I gave you the watch? Why I gave it to you?”

Cas nods, resigned to answering Dean’s questions. “Yes.”

“Then you remember that night at the diner. You remember what you said to me.” This time it’s not a question, and there’s no denial from Cas. “Did you...” Dean pauses, closes his eyes. He has to be direct, but he can’t find a way to ask what he wants to ask without giving away how desperate he is to hear Cas say the words again, to tell him one more time that he loves him. That he loves him _too._

“Dean.”  

Dean opens his eyes when he hears his name and finds Cas’s face close to his own, his eyes searching Dean’s.

“I remember all of it.”

It’s exactly what Dean wanted but was also afraid of. Cas remembers, but he didn’t want Dean and Sam to know that he did. Dean’s still weak in the heart, not yet recovered from the events of the long day, and he’s not sure the muscle beating rapidly in his chest can take another blow, but he has to know why. Dean sucks in his lips, moistens them. “So then you’ve changed your mind?”

Cas pushes his brows together, questioning. “I don’t understand.”

“When Crowley was in your head, he told me how you--”

Cas cuts him off. Mercifully. “Crowley lies.” He’s adamant, angry at the memory of the demon’s invasive assault. “I kept him away. He couldn’t get in, though he tried. I kept him away from almost everything.”

“Almost everything?”

“In order to do so, I had to allow access to some information. What he told you about my car was true, about the freedom it affords me.”

“Freedom to get away from me,” Dean shoots back. It’s a question disguised as a foregone conclusion. Screw Crowley.

“No, Dean.” Cas shakes his head. “Freedom to return to you. To come home.”

Dean swipes his hand over his mouth while Cas keeps talking.

“You have cared for me in ways I’ve never known before. You were gentle and kind, with your words, and your touch. You comforted me. You washed my hair. You held my hands and gave me food, and I felt, no, no, I feel, for the first time, that I truly understand... humanity. So no, Dean, I have not changed my mind. I have opened it.”

Dean slumps forward in his chair, puts his face in his hands.

Cas lays a soothing hand on Dean’s shoulder, gives him a minute before he says more. “I’m very sorry I misled you about the state of my memory. It seemed important to Sam. He was so wounded by the ordeal, and his guilt was beyond reason. I couldn’t bear to see him suffer needlessly, and believing that I had forgotten most of it did seem to ease his burden. I had every intention of telling you. I was waiting here, so I could tell you that and-- so we could talk, after you’d slept.”

Who is he to judge? He’s done his fair share of lying - and worse - for the sake of protecting his brother. The slice of anger that had found its way into Dean’s head when he first realized that Cas wasn’t being truthful is gone. He loves Cas, and he has to tell him.  He's got to find a way to get it out, to defy history and just say it.  But when he sees Cas’s face, the torment In his eyes, all he can say is "something's wrong." 

“Dean.” Cas’s voice is barely above a whisper. "I've done something. Without your consent."

Cas stands and steps away from the table, his head lowered, eyes trained on the floor below him.

“What is it? Just tell me Cas. Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out.” His voice sounds as desperate as the words, but he doesn’t care.

“You will be angry. You will be very angry.  You will--" 

"What? When?”

“In the warehouse. When I recovered my grace. I based my attempt on an ancient scripture I’d uncovered about the Mark’s origin and its relationship to certain energies. I had no knowledge that what it said was true.  I had no reason to believe that it would work, but I had to try. I had no choice but to try.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas extends his right arm and pushes up the sleeve of his shirt to expose the underside of his forearm. “But it did work, and I am glad.”

Dean makes a noise when he sees it, a choking sound, then jumps up from his chair, his body fueled by shock and outrage. “What did you do, Cas?”

“I’ve taken the Mark."

“I can fucking see that.” Dean runs his hand through his hair, looks around the room. “That’s awesome. That’s just great because now we both--” Dean stops, his last few words left on his tongue when he sees Cas shake his head and curl his lips into a faint smirk.

Dean grabs at his own shirt sleeve, tears the fabric as he shoves it out of the way. The pale skin of his own arm is clean and unblemished.

“What gives you the right?” Dean growls at his friend, pushes back his relief because he’s not entitled to it. “What gives you the fucking right?”

Cas doesn’t respond. Instead he lowers his arm, pulls his sleeve back down to cover it. Dean is seething, furious, but for the first time since he accepted the Mark, he’s not afraid of his anger. “What about the First Blade?”

“Hannah has destroyed it.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“No.” Cas’s shoulders sag in recognition of the oversight. “Regardless, the angels have possession of it and would never allow me to have it.”

“You stupid son of a bitch!”

He wants to hit something. He knows it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker afterwards, maybe even crack a few of his knuckles on Cas’s rocklike angel jaw, but it’ll be worth the pain. He rears back his fist and slams it into Cas’s face.

Cas stumbles back a few steps before he loses his footing and falls to the ground, sliding several feet along the smooth stone floor. Dean’s too stunned to move at first, but when he sees blood trickle out of Cas’s nose, he snaps out of it.

“Shit! That wasn’t supposed to happen. I thought you were all mojo’d up.” Dean is on his knees by Cas’s side, helping him up into a sitting position. “I saw you get mojo’d up. What’s wrong with your grace?”

Cas wipes his nose on his sleeve. “I’m fine.”

“Tell me,” Dean demands. “Are you human?”

“No.” Cas says. “My grace is diminished, but I am still an angel.”

“How? I mean, what…” Dean works it out mid-sentence. Cas’s grace was the energy he needed to take the Mark from Dean. “Is it permanent?”

“I don’t know.”

There’s a red mark blooming across Cas’s cheek. As Dean brushes the bruised skin with the tips of his fingers, his throat tightens and burns with the understanding of what Cas has done, of what Cas has sacrificed for him. He has to swallow hard in order to speak. “Why?”

Cas raises his chin, angles his head at Dean the way he always does when he thinks Dean is being obtuse. “You know why.”

He does. He didn’t see it before, couldn’t see it, was incapable of seeing it. Every single thing that they have been through, that they have fought for, that has happened since the day Castiel freed Dean from his damnation, has led them both to this. Finally, miraculously, to this.

“Because you love me,” Dean says, then quickly corrects himself. “Because you love me _too._ ”

Cas smiles his acknowledgment. “You are a good man, Dean. You’ve suffered and sacrificed for this world too much, for too long. This Mark, the atrocity it has become, isn’t meant for you. I’m taking it, relieving you of this burden because I can, and I am not sorry. I will never be sorry.”

“It’s not meant for you either. _You’re_ a good man.”

“I am not a man, Dean.”

“You’re the best man I know.”

Castiel gulps.  “Thank you. That means more to me than you may know.”

Dean grabs hold of Cas’s arm with both of his hands and pushes the knit sleeve back up to Cas’s elbow. Cas doesn’t resist. He reaches toward it, hovers his trembling hand over it, hesitant to touch it.

“I don’t want you to be frightened of me." Cas utters, deep and low. “I will leave here before I let that happen. I couldn’t bear it.”

“No!” Dean says it sharply, adamantly, then rests his palm on Cas’s arm.  He stares at the Mark, runs his fingers along the edges of it. It doesn’t look or feel the same on Cas. The flesh is flat rather than swollen and raised, and it’s lighter in color, more like a birthmark than a scar. “It’s different on you."

“The original Mark was given to Lucifer because God loved and trusted him,” Cas discloses. “It was Lucifer who found a way to pass it on to Cain.  It was never meant to be what it has become. It was never intended for any human. It’s different because as an angel, I am better equipped to carry it.”

“I’m not afraid of you Cas.” Dean swings one bent leg over Cas’s thighs and slides onto his lap, straddling him. He’s still holding onto Cas’s arm, underside up with the Mark on display.  He bows his head and kisses it. “I’ll be your Colette,” he tells Cas as he lays kisses up the line of his arm, across his shoulder and along the side of his neck. When he reaches Cas’s lips, he pulls away. “Is this okay with you?”

Cas looks up at him, unblinking and silent. Awestruck.

He has to ask, now that he knows that the first night Cas came to his room and every time thereafter, he was under the spell.  “I don’t know if what we were doing before, when we were playing pool, was caused by the spell.  I don't know if it was something you wanted, or something you even--”

“I want it.” Cas says it softly but with unmistakable urgency. “Yes, Dean, please. I want it very much.”

That’s all Dean needs to hear.  With one hand on Cas’s cheek, the other beneath his jaw, he lifts Cas’s head up, swipes his thumb across the cleft of his chin. It surprises him how much he's come to like the feel of stubble beneath his fingers. His head is light, weightless as he leans over and catches Cas’s lips with his own. There’s a pleasant warmth spreading over his skin, an easy prickle in his belly, and he can’t remember the last time he felt those things. Maybe he never has.

Cas kisses him back. He wraps his arms around Dean’s waist, clutches the back of his shirt and pulls Dean closer. It’s clumsy and wet but filled with need and absolutely fucking perfect.

He’s not so far gone to be unaware that they are on the floor in the middle of the war room, but one more minute of this and he will be. He pulls back just enough to see Cas’s face. “Come to bed with me Cas.”

“Yes, yes,” Cas responds. “But first, may I ask you one thing?”

“Sure. Anything.”

“Who is Colette?”

______________________________

 

“So you believe that, metaphorically, _I_ was Colette and now, _you_ are Colette?”

“Well, yeah, basically.  She was his wife, and their bond - it kept him from..."  Dean clears his throat.  "Anyway, like you said. Metaphorically.”

“I suppose it’s actually more of an analogy.”

“Whatever.”

He’s exhausted, his body functioning on adrenaline and sex alone for the last forty-five minutes, but holy shit, it’s been worth it. Cas is naked, wrapped up in his arms, and wide awake. That has to be a good sign, as far as his grace is concerned.

“I gotta tell you, Cas. I believe that was the most enjoyable game of pool I’ve ever had the privilege of playing.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, somewhat coyly. “I find it much more liberating without your so-called house rules.”

“Well give me about two hours and I’ll be ready to liberate you one more time.” Dean winks.

Cas’s smile is authentic but short-lived. “We have to tell Sam about the Mark immediately. If he's not comfortable with what I have done, then it would be best if I --”

“He’ll be fine,” Dean cuts Cas off before he can say the word. “You’re not going anywhere, you hear me?”

“Dean.”

Dean twists onto his side, faces Cas. “You’re gonna stay here and we’re gonna keep researching and find a way to get rid of it for good. And we will find it. I promise you, we will find it.”

“Dean.” Cas pauses, and Dean braces for another argument from him, but instead Cas places his hand over Dean’s heart and says “all right.”

“Okay, then.” Dean sighs, relieved for now. He knows full well that Cas will leave if they’re not able to control the Mark, if Cas ever feels he is a danger to him or Sam. He’ll deal with it then if has to, but hopefully, that day will never come.

“So I was thinking,” Dean says casually. “Maybe you should just move your stuff into my room. In case it turns out that you do need to sleep every now and then.”

Cas needs no convincing. “It makes sense. Your mattress does seem to remember me.”

“You bet it does,” Dean chuckles. “But that’s not really why.” Dean closes his hand over Cas’s, the one pressed against his chest. “You know why.”

“I do.” Cas kisses Dean’s neck, nuzzles into the space there as if he owns it. Dean thinks he probably does.

Dean doesn’t have to say it. Cas knows and he doesn’t have to say it, but suddenly, he wants to. With all of his stupid, pounding, heart, he wants to. And so he does.

“I love you too, Cas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally! I know, I know. Thanks to those of you who stuck with it. (Although if you were reading it along the way you've probably forgotten the beginning by now - lol.) 
> 
> For some reason, this ending was extra hard. I threw away twice as many words as I posted, but it was important to me that I got it to where I wanted it before I shared it. 
> 
> Thanks so much for your patience.
> 
> 6/4/16 - edits to last bit of dialogue for reasons. ("reasons"= I like it better.)


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